The Game Changer
by Demolition.Lover.14
Summary: You have missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the three of us against the rest of the world. Sequel to The Family Business.
1. Chapter 1

_**1.**_

"Bollocks," Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade said loudly.

"No – no – no," Anderson protested. The two men, the latter of whom had a scruffy beard and unwashed hair, stood at a mobile coffee stall, both of them clutching takeaway coffees. "It's obvious! That's how he did it! It's obvious!"

"Derren Brown? Let it go," Lestrade scoffed. "Sherlock's dead."

"_Is_ he?"

"There was a body. It was him. It was _definitely_ him. Molly Hooper laid him out."

"No, she's lying. It was Jim Moriarty's body with a mask on!" Anderson insisted, and Lestrade supressed the strong urge to roll his eyes.

"A mask?" he repeated. Anderson nodded eagerly. "A bungee rope, a mask, Derren Brown. Two years, and the theories keep getting more stupid. How many more have you got for me today?"

"Well, you know the paving slabs in that whole area – even the exact ones that he landed on – you know they were all –"

"Guilt," Lestrade interrupted. He gave Anderson a stern look. "That's all this is. You pushed us all into thinking that Sherlock was a fraud, you and Donovan." Anderson lowered his gaze. "You did this, and it killed him, and he's staying dead. Do you honestly believe that if you have enough stupid theories, it's going to change what really happened?"

Lestrade turned around and walked away, taking his coffee with him.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes," Anderson called after him.

"Yeah, well that won't bring him back."

Anderson watched Lestrade walk away for a few seconds, then sighed and joined him. Various reporters stood in front of their cameras, and Anderson caught snippets of their reports when he stopped by Lestrade's side. Two years had passed, yet the media had only just come to the conclusion that Sherlock was not a fake. James Moriarty was real. It hardly mattered now though. He was dead.

"Well then," Lestrade said, raising his cup. "Absent friends. Sherlock."

Anderson sadly raised his own cup. "Sherlock," he echoed, and the two of them tapped their cups together.

"And may God rest his soul," Lestrade murmured.

* * *

There were flowers at Sherlock's headstone. Some old, some new. He knew who kept replacing them – since she moved in, Elspeth made regular visits to Sherlock's grave, taking a fresh bunch of flowers each time. She once told John that Sherlock hated flowers, but it was her duty as his only daughter to aggravate him. She'd said it with a sad smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

John gazed at the headstone for a long time, thinking. Remembering. It had been two longs years. He was getting his life back on track though, and so was Elspeth.

Silently, Mary Morstan reached out and took John's hand in her own. He grasped it tightly.

* * *

The prisoner refused to talk. No matter how many times the Serbian torturer beat the man, no matter how much he shouted at the prisoner slumped in the corner, he refused to say anything. In the opposite corner, the soldier with his feet on the small table said nothing.

"You broke in here for a reason," the torturer said furiously, pacing back and forth. He picked a large metal pipe, holding it over his shoulder as he strode towards the prisoner. "Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?" he lifted the pipe and prepared to strike the prisoner, but the man suddenly whispered something. The torturer stopped. He lowered the pipe and leaned forwards. "What?"

The prisoner continued to whisper and the torturer reached down, pulling the man's head up by his hair.

"Well?" the solider in the corner asked. "What did he say?"

The torturer released the man's hair, straightening up. He looked at the prisoner with bewilderment.

"He said that I used to work in the navy, where I had an unhappy love affair."

"What?"

The prisoner started to whisper again. The torturer repeated his words. ". . . that the electricity isn't working in my bathroom; and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbour!" he cried, pulling the man's head up by his hair again so he could ask a question. "The coffin maker!"

Bending his head down, the torturer demanded to know more.

"If I go home now, I'll catch them at it! I knew it! I knew there was something going on!"

The torturer released his prisoner's hair and stormed out of the room, leaving the man slumping, held up only by the chains around his wrists.

"So, my friend. Now it's just you and me," the soldier said, taking his feet off the table. He stood up. "You have no idea the trouble it took to find you."

The soldier walked forwards and grabbed a handful of the prisoner's hair, pulling his head up slightly. Leaning close to the man's ear, the soldier spoke in English.

"Now listen to me," Mycroft Holmes hissed. "There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear." He released the man's hair and straightened up. "Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."

Under his long hair, Sherlock Holmes smiled.

* * *

Mycroft was the first to return to his office in the Diogenes Club, with Sherlock only a few hours behind. By that time, Mycroft had taken the liberty of having a barber brought in to cut and wash his brother's hair, as well as remove the awful beard that had started to grow on Sherlock's chin.

The brothers barely exchanged a word for the first half an hour, in which Sherlock reluctantly enjoyed being pampered and read the paper in an attempt to ignore his brother.

It was Mycroft who broke the silence. "You_ have_ been busy, haven't you?" he asked, reading a file at his desk. Sherlock tossed the newspaper onto a nearby trolley, bored. "Quite the busy little bee," Mycroft continued, chuckling to himself.

"Moriarty's network," Sherlock said. "Took me two years to dismantle it."

"And you're confident you have?"

"The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle."

"Yes. You got yourself in deep there –" Mycroft paused and checked his file again. "– with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme."

"Colossal," Sherlock agreed dryly.

Mycroft shut the file. "Anyway, you're safe now. A small thank you wouldn't go amiss," he added pointedly. Being subtle did not come easily the Holmes family.

"What for?" Sherlock asked.

"For wading in," Mycroft replied. Sherlock raised a hand to make the barber stop shaving him. "In case you'd forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu."

Sherlock grunted in pain as he pulled himself up in his chair, looking at his brother angrily.

"_Wading in_? You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp."

Mycroft frowned indignantly. "I got you out."

"No, _I_ got me out," Sherlock corrected. "Why didn't you intervene sooner?"

"Well, I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I?" Mycroft retorted. "It would have ruined everything."

"You were enjoying it."

"Nonsense."

"_Definitely_ enjoying it," Sherlock spat, making Mycroft roll his eyes. The older Holmes brother leaned forwards in his seat.

"Listen, do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going 'under cover', smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The _noise_, the _people_?" he asked in dismay, shuddering at the very thought. Sherlock sank back into his seat, flinching, and the barber resumed his work.

"I didn't know you spoke Serbian," Sherlock commented.

"I didn't, but the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words." Mycroft shrugged with as much modesty as he could muster, which wasn't very much. "Took me a couple of hours."

"Hmm. You're slipping."

"Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all," Mycroft with a tight lipped smile. Just then, the door to his office opened, and Anthea walked in with a hanger in one hand. Sherlock smiled at the sight of his suit and shirt.

Anthea and the barber left the room, and Mycroft averted his eyes so Sherlock could have some privacy while he dressed. His hair dried, slowly forming into its unruly curls, and he had just buttoned up his shirt when Anthea came back into the room, standing next to Mycroft. Sherlock paid neither of them any attention.

"I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock continued to tuck his shirt into his trousers, looking at his reflection in the large mirror on t the wall. "What do you think of this shirt?"

"Sherlock!"

"I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes at his brother's tone of exasperation. Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart."

"One of our men _died_ getting this information," Anthea told him. "All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there's going to be a terror strike on London – a big one."

Sherlock pulled his jacket on. "And what about Ellie? And John Watson?" he asked.

"John?" Mycroft repeated.

"Have you seen him?"

"Oh, yes – we meet up every Friday for fish and chips," Mycroft said dryly, gesturing to Anthea, who handed Sherlock a folder. "I've kept a weather eye on him, of course." He watched his brother open the folder. "You haven't been in touch at all, to prepare him?"

"No," Sherlock said distractedly, looking at the photos of John. He had a _moustache_. "Well, we'll have to get rid of that."

"We?" Mycroft repeated.

"He looks ancient. I can't be seen to be wandering around with an old man." Sherlock dropped the folder onto the desk, turning to Mycroft. "And Ellie?"

"What about Ellie?"

"Where is she? How is she? Surely you must have seen her a few times these past two years," Sherlock said pointedly.

"She's as well as can be expected," Mycroft replied while Anthea handed Sherlock a second folder. Opening it, the first thing his eyes sought were the surveillance images of Elspeth in black and white, focusing on her face and taking in her features. Mycroft watched his brother, seeing the love and longing and sadness swell in Sherlock's eyes. Say what you will about Sherlock Holmes, but it was impossible to deny that he loved his daughter.

"I think I'll surprise them," Sherlock announced, closing the folder and putting it down on the desk with slightly more care than he had done with John's. "They'll be so delighted!"

Mycroft's smile was cynical. "You think so?"

"Hmm. I'll pop into Baker Street. Who knows – jump out of a cake," Sherlock said, flinging his arms out.

"Baker Street? They aren't there anymore," Mycroft told him. Sherlock didn't bother hide his surprise. "Why _would_ they be? It's been two years. They both got on with their lives."

"_What_ life?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "I've been away." At that comment, Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Where are they going to be tonight?"

"How would _I _know?"

"You_ always_ know."

"John has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road, no doubt Elspeth will be joining him. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion . . . though I prefer the 2001."

"I think maybe I'll just drop by."

"You know, it is just possible that you won't be welcome," Mycroft told him.

"No it isn't," Sherlock scoffed. "Now, where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"You _know_ what."

Clearing her throat, Anthea held up Sherlock's coat. The sight of it made Sherlock smile in delight.

"Welcome back, Mr Holmes," Anthea said with more sincerity than Mycroft could muster.

"Thank you." Sherlock turned to Mycroft. "Blud," he added sarcastically.

* * *

Getting into the Landmark Hotel was remarkably easy. Seeing John for the first time was not.

Never one to miss making an entrance, Sherlock crossed the room, procuring the necessary items as he did so – first came the bowtie, then a pair of glasses that took a few seconds to adjust to. He even pinched a woman's eyeliner and drew on a moustache on his top lip, thinking it would be amusing for John and Elspeth when they saw it.

"Can I 'elp you with anything, sir?" Sherlock asked John with an exaggerated French accent, thinking it would make his friend look up from the menu.

"Hi, yeah. I'm looking for a bottle of champagne – a good one."

Sherlock leaned closer to him. "Mmm! Well, these are all excellent vintages."

"Er, it's not really my area. What do you suggest?" John asked without turning around, much to Sherlock's chagrin.

"Well, you cannot possibly go wrong, but, erm, if you'd like my personal recommendation this last one on the list is a favourite of mine." John nodded, still not looking up. Why wouldn't he look up? "It is – you might, in fact, say – like a face from ze past," Sherlock continued, straightening up and waiting expectantly.

"Great. I'll have that one please," John said. He finished off his glass of red wine but still didn't look round at Sherlock.

"It is familiar, but, er, with the quality of _surprise_!" Sherlock made a grand gesture but it went unnoticed as John handed him the wine list, still without turning around.

"Well, surprise me."

"Certainly endeavouring to, sir," Sherlock said tetchily, taking the wine list and walking away. John barely noticed, taking a box out of his pocket and fidgeting with it so it was in the perfect position on the table. He was nervous, Mary was in the bathroom and Elspeth was late.

"Sorry that took so long," Mary said, tapping him on the shoulder as she passed, then sitting down across from him. She looked stunning. John snatched the box off the table. "You ok?"

"Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am _fine_," John said. "Have you heard from Ellie?"

"She's on her way." Mary's smile made John beam. "Now then, what did you want to ask me?"

John's grin faded slightly. He nervously offered her more wine but she declined, leaving John to fumble over his words.

"Er, so . . . .Mary. Listen, erm . . . I know it hasn't been long . . . I mean, I know we haven't known each other for a long time . . ." why wasn't Elspeth there? She would've known what to do. "As you know, these last couple of years haven't been easy for me, and meeting you . . ." John looked at her and nodded firmly. "Yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened."

"I agree."

"What?"

"I agree I'm the best thing that could have happened to you," Mary said, making John laugh. "Sorry."

"Well, no, that's um . . . if you could see your way to . . ." John's nervousness made Mary giggle again, and just as he was about to ask, Sherlock strode back to their table, still in disguise but with a bottle of champagne in his hands.

"Sir, I think you'll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking," he said. Mary had to turn away so he wouldn't see her laughing. "It has all the qualities of the old, with some of the colour of the new."

John kept his eyes locked on Mary. "No, sorry, not now, please."

"Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers, suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend." Sherlock took off his glasses, waiting.

"No, look, seriously could you just –" John looked up. His whole body jolted. This wasn't possible. There was no way that this was possible.

"Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters," Sherlock said. John's eyes were filled with tears as he looked away, then clumsily stumbled to his feet. He heard Mary say his name but he couldn't focus on anything other than the fact that Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of him. When Mary asked what was going on, Sherlock spoke again. "Well, short version," he said awkwardly. "Not dead."

John stared at him. Sherlock could see the pain and growing anger in his eyes, feeling a bit guilty.

"Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defence, it was very funny." John's murderous gaze told Sherlock that it wasn't funny. "Okay, it's not a great defence."

"You're . . ." Mary said.

"Yes."

"Oh my God!"

"Not quite."

"You died," Mary insisted incredulously. "You jumped off a roof."

"No."

"You're _dead_."

"No. I'm quite sure. I checked. Excuse me." Sherlock picked up a napkin from the table, dipped it into Mary's glass of water and started to rub off the eyeliner moustache. Perhaps it wasn't as funny as it anticipated it would be. He was slightly disappointed Elspeth wouldn't see it. Where was she? "Does, er, does yours rub off, too?" he asked John, trying to sound nonchalant under his furious gaze.

"Oh my God, oh my God," Mary repeated, her anger rising. "Do you have _any_ idea what you've done to them?"

_Them_. Mary knew Elspeth. Sherlock looked down nervously.

"Ok, John, I'm suddenly realising I probably owe you some sort of an apology," he said. Both he and Mary jumped when John's fist clenched and slammed against the table. Mary tried to soothe him.

"Two years," John whispered, hunched over his fist. He shook his head, let out a long breath and slowly straightened up again. "Two years," he repeated. Moaning, he slumped down over his hands. "I thought . . ." Sherlock had never seen John look so pitiful and helpless. He looked away. "I thought . . . you were dead. You let me grieve. You let _Ellie_ grieve. How could you do that to us?" Sherlock looked away. "_How_?" John demanded.

"Wait – before you do anything that you might regret," Sherlock said, noticing that John's breathing had become more intense. He wasn't just angry, he was _furious_. "One question, just let me ask one question . . . um . . ." he gestured towards John's upper lip, giggling nervously. "Are you really going to keep that?"

John was calm for a second before he suddenly lunged, hurling himself at Sherlock and catching him off guard. The two of them went toppling to the ground when Sherlock lost his footing, John's hands around his neck in an attempt to throttle him.

In all the commotion, Sherlock heard a familiar voice cry out. "John, what the hell?"

The waiters and Mary successfully managed to pull John off, and Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, wincing slightly. He barely noticed the pain, however, as he climbed to his feet and turned around. He couldn't help but grin when his eyes met those of Elspeth Holmes.

"Hello Ellie," Sherlock said. "We don't have enough time for the long version before we're escorted off the premises so here's the short one: Not. Dead."


	2. Chapter 2

_**2.**_

She felt like she might be sick. Or collapse. Maybe even be sick and then collapse.

Elspeth stared at the man in front of her, tears welling up in her eyes as her hands clenched and unclenched nervously, shaking so much she was surprised she _didn't_ collapse. This was a joke, some sort of sick, horrible joke. Or worse – a nightmare.

Her heart pounding furiously against her chest, Elspeth looked at John, who was being restrained by the waiters and breathing heavily, and then at Mary, whose eyes were flickering between the three of them nervously. Turning back to Sherlock, who continued to gaze at her, no doubt deducing her reaction, she opened her mouth to speak, only to find that there were no words to say. Elspeth ran a trembling hand through her hair, taking a step back.

"Ellie," Sherlock said. His voice was deep and soft and just like she remembered, which only made it so much harder to believe.

"I thought you were _dead_," she finally whispered.

"So did John and Mary – and John tried to put me back in my grave," Sherlock tried to joke. It was a nervous habit. He was a man who could make people tremble in their boots with his words alone but when Sherlock Holmes was faced with an awkward situation he couldn't handle, he babbled and made poor jokes and giggled nervously.

"No . . ." Elspeth shook her head. "No, this isn't happening." She turned around and raced back out of the hotel.

"Ellie," Mary called after her in despair, letting go of John's hand and also leaving the hotel. Tearing himself from the waiter's grip, John gave Sherlock a final glare and followed them.

"Sir?" a waiter asked Sherlock. "Sir, are you alright? Would you like us to call the police?"

"No, that won't be necessary, thank you," Sherlock said. He was still shocked from seeing Elspeth for the first time in two years. Why had she run from him? John's reaction, he suppose, he could understand, but he thought that Elspeth would be pleased to see him.

One of the waiters handed Sherlock his coat and he strode out of the hotel, following John, Mary and Elspeth. He lingered in the doorway, watching the scene from a distance; Mary was talking quietly to Elspeth, a hand rubbing up and down the teenager's arm in a soothing manner while her other hand held John's. It made Sherlock's stomach twist uncomfortably to see them act so naturally together, like they were a family.

But they weren't. Elspeth was _his _daughter, John was _his_ friend.

Striding over, Sherlock frowned when Elspeth deliberately turned her head away so she wouldn't have to look at him. Mary gave Sherlock a sympathetic smile.

"There's a café around the corner," she said. "Why don't we go there and talk?"

"Yeah, great idea," John said stiffly. Elspeth didn't say anything as she turned around and walked down the street, slightly unsteady in her heels. It made Sherlock roll his eyes. Since when did Elspeth wear _heels_?

The four of them received a few odd looks when they walked into the café, probably because John, Mary and Elspeth were dressed very formally. Elspeth sat down at the first available table. Sherlock made to sit next to her but John beat him to it.

Apart from Mary ordering them tea – with extra sugar for Elspeth because she was in shock – no one spoke. Sherlock was the one to break the silence.

"I calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once I'd invited Moriarty onto the roof," he said. Elspeth put her head in her hand and turned away, still refusing to look at him. "I wanted to avoid dying if at all possible. The first scenario involved hurling myself into a parked hospital van filled with washing bags. Impossible. The angle was too steep. Secondly, a system of Japanese wrestling –"

"You know, for a genius you can be remarkably thick," John interrupted.

"What?"

"I don't care _how_ you faked it, Sherlock. I want to know _why_."

Sherlock looked bewildered. "_Why_?" he repeated. "Because Moriarty had to be stopped." He then saw John's expression, realisation dawning on him. "Oh. _Why_ as in . . ." his voice trailed off, his eyes flickering between John and Elspeth. "I see. Yes. Why? That's a little more difficult to explain."

"I've got all night," John said darkly. Sherlock cleared his throat, glanced at Elspeth again and looked down.

"Actually, um, that was mostly Mycroft's idea."

Elspeth visibly stiffened. One of her hands was on the table, slowly clenching into a fist at the mention of Mycroft.

"Oh, so it's your _brother's_ plan?"

"He would've needed a confidant," Mary piped up. Sherlock smiled in agreement but John gave her a dark look. "Sorry."

"But he was the only one? The only one who knew?" John asked. Sherlock paused, closing his eyes before forcing out the next sentence.

"Couple of others," he said. John lowered his head. Elspeth bit her bottom lip. "It was a very elaborate plan – it _had_ to be. The next of the thirteen possibilities –"

"Who else?" John whispered. He looked up. "Who else knew?" Sherlock hesitated. "_Who_?"

"Molly."

"Molly?" John repeated angrily. Elspeth shut her eyes. _Keep breathing_, she reminded herself.

"Molly Hooper – and _some_ of my homeless network, and that's all," Sherlock promised.

"Ok," John said, sitting up a little and glancing at Mary, who gave him a sympathetic smile. "Ok. So just your brother, and Molly Hooper, and a hundred tramps."

Sherlock laughed. "No!" he said. "Twenty five at the most."

He should've recognised the signs, really because seconds later, John lunged across the table again.

* * *

The kebab shop smelled of grease. It made Elspeth, who hadn't eaten all night, feel slightly nauseous as she leaned against the counter, her arms folded across her chest. John's actions got them kicked out of the café as well, so Mary – the only calm, rational one of the group – found them the kebab shop, complaining about her empty stomach. Somehow, John managed to throw in a punch when he lunged at Sherlock, who was dabbing at his bottom lip with a napkin. He grimaced at the blood.

"Seriously, it's not a joke?" Sherlock asked John, gesturing his own upper lip. "You're really keeping this?"

"Yeah," John said stiffly.

"You're sure?"

"Mary likes it."

Sherlock frowned. "Mmm," he said regretfully. "No, she doesn't."

Opening his mouth to scoff at Sherlock, John glanced at Mary. He did a double take when she saw her open agreement, and she made an incoherent apologetic noise.

"Oh!" John said. "Brilliant!" he turned to Elspeth. "What about you?"

Elspeth gazed at John apologetically, grimacing. "It kind of makes you look like an old man," she said quietly, the first time she had spoken all night. "A _really _old man. Sorry."

"This is charming!" John said sarcastically. He pointed angrily at Sherlock, who had been gazing at Elspeth with a happy shine in his eyes. She wouldn't look at him. "I've really missed this!" he looked down, then back up at Sherlock. "_One word_, Sherlock. That is _all_ we would have needed. One word to let us know you were alive."

For the first time that night since the restaurant, Elspeth looked at Sherlock. He looked back at her. He could see the questions in her eyes, the pain and sadness and the way she couldn't comprehend _why_ he didn't tell them he was still alive. Elspeth's eyes truly were the window to her soul; when Sherlock looked in them, he could see everyone and everything she loved – fluffy socks, art museums, take aways, old cameras, and _him_.

"I've nearly been in contact so many times," Sherlock said quietly. "but I worried that, you know, you might say something indiscreet."

"What?" John asked incredulously.

"Well, you know, let the cat out of the bag."

"Oh, so this is _my _fault?" John demanded while Mary laughed in disbelief. Sherlock glanced at Elspeth. The hurt in her eyes made him look away again. "Why am I the only one who thinks that this is wrong – the only one reacting like a human being?"

Elspeth turned an indignant and angry look at John, but he didn't notice because he was staring at Sherlock.

"_Over_ reacting," Sherlock muttered.

"Over reacting?" John repeated. "_Over reacting?_ So you fake your own death –"

"Ssh," Sherlock hissed.

"– and you waltz in here large as bloody life –"

"_Ssh_."

"– but I'm not supposed to have a problem with that, no, because Sherlock Holmes thinks it's a perfectly _OK THING TO DO_!" John yelled the end of his sentence at the top of his voice, several people turning his way when he did. Mary sighed quietly, grimacing at Elspeth.

"Shut up, John! I don't want _everyone_ knowing I'm still alive!" Sherlock yelled back.

"They're worse than kids," Mary whispered to Elspeth, who rolled her eyes in agreement.

"Oh, so it's still a secret, is it?" John shouted.

"Yes! It's still a secret," Sherlock replied loudly. There was a moment's pause as he looked over his shoulder at the other customers. "Promise you won't tell anyone."

"Swear to God!" John said sarcastically.

Finally, John realised that there were other people in the shop. He backed away from Sherlock slightly, having taken a few steps forwards without realising, but Sherlock closed the distance by taking a step towards him.

"London is in danger," Sherlock said quietly, his eyes flickering between John and Elspeth, who gazed back at him passively. "There's an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help." Sherlock's eyes rested on Elspeth. "I need help from both of you."

John stared back at him in amazement, throwing a look to Mary that said _can you believe this guy?_ It was laughable, Sherlock's assumption that John and Elspeth would just accept he had faked his death and wanted their help, but neither of them felt like laughing.

"My help?" John repeated.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he deduced John's genuine surprise, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

"You _have_ missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the three of us against the rest of the world –"

Sherlock didn't get a chance to finish his sentence before John grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, reared his head back and threw himself forwards for the third time that night.

* * *

His nose was bleeding. Sherlock tilted his head back a little, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to stop the blood from trickling down.

"I don't understand," he said. Mary handed him a paper napkin, which he gratefully accepted. "I said I'm sorry. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

"Gosh. You don't know anything about human nature, do you?" Mary asked with a small smile.

Sherlock lowered his head, looking at her. "Mmm, nature? No. Human . . . no," he said.

"I'll talk him round," Mary promised. Sherlock took the napkin from under his nose and looked at her curiously.

"You will?"

"Oh yeah." Mary's smile was confident. "I'll give it a go with Ellie, but we both know how stubborn she is."

Sherlock looked at Mary closely – _only child, linguist, clever, part time nurse, short-sighted, guardian, bakes own bread, disillusioned, cat lover, romantic, appendix scar, Lib Dem, secret tattoo, size 12_ – and then smiled back at her.

"Mary," John called, standing someway down the road with Elspeth next to him. She had taken the pins out of her hair so it tumbled freely down her shoulders and she held her heels in one hand. She had no idea why she'd worn them. They were far too uncomfortable.

Mary turned to give Sherlock one last smile before joining John and Elspeth in the taxi.

"Can you believe his nerve?" John asked as the taxi drove away.

"I like him."

John did a double take. "What?"

Mary shrugged, smiling at John. "I like him," she repeated. John looked at her, completely bewildered, before turning away.

* * *

**2 Years Ago**

"No, stay _exactly_ where you are. Don't move."

"Alright."

"Hand the phone to Ellie. Please," Sherlock said. On the edge of St Bart's rooftop was a dummy, dressed in a replica of Sherlock's coat and scarf. It had a dark curly wig and a life-side photo of Sherlock's face had been stuck onto the dummy's head. One of its hands were raised to hold a phone.

While Sherlock spoke tearfully down the phone to an incredulous Elspeth, leaning against a low chimney on the roof, Jim Moriarty sat next to him, giggling. In one of Sherlock's hands was a rope, holding the dummy upright.

"_Ssh_," Sherlock hissed angrily at Moriarty. Saying his final goodbye to Elspeth, he flicked the rope and sent the dummy toppling over the edge of the roof.

Sherlock and Moriarty laughed hysterically, pleased that their plan had worked, turning to look at each other. Their smiles slowly faded. Sherlock frowned a little, puzzled, and after a moment of gazing into each other's eyes, they both leaned in towards each other. Their lips were about to touch –

* * *

"_What_?" Anderson demanded, horrified. "Are you out of your mind?"

Laura, the dark haired girl in his living room, shrugged. "I don't see why not. It's just as plausible as some of _your_ theories," she said stubbornly. Behind her, the walls of the living room were covered with notes, photographs and Post It notes, pieces of red string linking the notes together. There were several other people in the living room along with Laura and Anderson, three of whom were wearing deerstalker hats.

"Look, if you're not going to take it seriously, Laura, you can . . ." Anderson's voice trailed off and he made a furious gesture towards the door.

"I _do_ take it seriously," Laura said angrily, then cast a disapproving look towards the three boys were deerstalkers. "I don't think we should wear hats."

"I founded '_The Empty Hearse_' so like-minded people could meet, discuss theories –" Anderson choked on his words, taking another step towards Laura. "Sherlock's still out there. I'm convinced of it."

"Oh my God," Laura said, looking towards the TV. The headline shouted: **HAT DETECTIVE ALIVE**. Instantly, everyone's phones began to signal text alerts, and everyone scrabbled for their pockets. Laura's face lit up with excitement. "Oh. My. _God!"_

It was official. Sherlock Holmes was alive.

* * *

**Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH**

**If inconvenient, come anyway. SH**

**Please. I need to talk to you. SH**

Elspeth lay in her bed, reading and rereading the three texts Sherlock had sent her that morning. She knew he was repeating his words to John from years ago, and she knew he did it to make her smile, but it just made her sigh.

She scrolled through older messages, reading old conversations. Sherlock constantly texted Elspeth before – the thought sent a shiver down her spine, and she quickly dropped her phone on her bed next to her.

Rolling onto her back, Elspeth stared up at the ceiling. Half of her wanted to go, but the other half didn't.

Elspeth frowned, sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She looked over at the dress hanging in front of her wardrobe, the beautiful dress she had worn the night before, thinking she was going to have a normal evening with John and Mary. She knew about John's plan to propose to Mary. None of them knew that Sherlock Holmes was going to return from the dead.

She got dressed quickly, pulling on the first pair of jeans and shirt she grabbed when she opened her wardrobe, not bothering to check if they were clean. Tugging a brush through her hair, Elspeth tied it into a messy ponytail before leaving her room, picking up a hoodie as she went.

The door to John and Mary's bedroom was slightly ajar, and Elspeth lingered just outside, eavesdropping.

"The famous blog, finally!" Mary said. Elspeth didn't hear John's muffled reply; he was in their small en suite bathroom. "– ancient history, yes, I know. But it's not, though, is it, because he's – what are you doing?"

"Having a wash," was John's slightly clearer and agitated reply.

""You're shaving it off."

"Well, you hate it."

"Sherlock hates it."

"Apparently everyone hates it," John grumbled, making Mary laugh and Elspeth smile to herself.

"Are you going to see him again?" Mary asked.

"No, I'm going to work."

"Oh. And after work, are you going to see him again?" John didn't reply, but he must've done something because Mary giggled to herself. "Cor, I don't know – six months of bristly kisses for me, and then His Nibs turns up . . ."

"I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes," John told her.

"Oh! You should put that on a T-shirt!"

"Shut up."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll marry you," John said, and that was when Elspeth decided she had heard enough. Pushing herself off the wall, she walked through to the kitchen and scribbled a quick note on the pad attached to the fridge with a magnet. She knew they would see it.

Elspeth didn't look back as she strode out of the flat, pulling on her hoodie as she went. She was going to see Sherlock, and a feeling of dread followed her with every step she took.

* * *

Thank you TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, bellechat, tinuviel21, aorangeinboston, Aimee, WerewolfHybrid31, Starcrier, nakari ash, iwanttobeaneverdeen, Ello ello ello, quidditchandsonicscrewdrivers, Adrillian1497, ElizabethCullen08, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, GeorgyannWayson, Darcy, Tayla, ElisePotterFreak, Nostalgic Beauty, fmxc17, LoverofWords22, lauren6498, Greeting'sAndSaltations, Hannah Skywalker - Jedi Padawan, tardislover1, Ms Moonshoes Potter, youngblood killjoy for reviewing!

Hopefully Elspeth's reaction was satisfactory, I promise an emotional rant and Hurricane Ellie (thank you Georgyann Wayson for coming up with that phrase, it's fantastic!) will be making an appearance in the next chapter . . .


	3. Chapter 3

_**3.**_

Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the window, pausing every now and again to peer outside. He received a text message from Elspeth, just one word – **Ok**.

He stopped when the front door opened, listening to Mrs Hudson and Elspeth's chatter. A minute later, he heard Elspeth's footsteps – slow, hesitant, the toes of her boots catching the edge as she stumbled slightly – walk up the steps. Sherlock quickly straightened the cushions on the sofa, which had been thrown on carelessly, and brought a tray from the kitchen to the living room. He was putting it down on the coffee table when Elspeth opened the door.

"Hello," Sherlock said, slowly straightening up.

Elspeth shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Hi," she said rather awkwardly.

Sherlock's eyes did a quick sweep of Elspeth. She hadn't slept the previous night and her hair was escaping the band she scraped it back with. Elspeth bit her lip. Brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Scuffed her foot against the ground. All nervous habits that Sherlock was familiar with.

"You can sit down if you want," Sherlock said, breaking the silence and gesturing towards the sofa. "I got biscuits. They're your favourites." He hesitated. "I think," he added sheepishly.

Looking towards the tray on the table, Elspeth's lips twitched. The Party rings, biscuits with a hole in the centre that were covered with hard icing, were her favourite; when she was small, she would stick her finger through the hole and nibble at the biscuit carefully, making sure to go around so it remained a ring despite how uneven it became.

Sherlock looked at Elspeth hopefully. She sighed.

"I'm not hungry," she said quietly, unable to supress the feeling of guilt when she did.

"No, of course not, you hardly ever eat in the mornings," Sherlock muttered, more to himself than her. "Despite Mary's constant nagging – she's right, you know, you have lost a lot of weight. Not to mention it'll affect your performance at college."

"I left." Sherlock looked at Elspeth in surprise. "College," she elaborated. "It's over. The exams are done."

"Oh. How did you do?"

"Four A's and a B."

"Congratulations, that's . . . that's really good. I'm proud of you," Sherlock said sincerely. It made Elspeth bite down on her lip again. John and Mary were there on the day she received her results, and they were the ones who took her out for a celebratory dinner. Sherlock should've been there.

"Why am I here?" Elspeth asked abruptly, frowning at Sherlock as she stood in the doorway of the living room. "Because it isn't to talk about my A-level results and eat biscuits, I know that."

Sherlock gazed back at her for a second, blinking. He _had_ asked Elspeth to meet him for a reason, but he was so caught up in seeing his daughter again that he almost forgot.

"I . . . I brought you here because I feel that I owe you some sort of explanation," Sherlock finally said, tripping over the beginning of his sentence. "What I did to you and John was unfair, and I understand now that I caused you a lot of hurt –"

"You really have no idea, do you?" Elspeth interrupted suddenly. Her voice rose. "Do you honestly think that you can give me some _pitiful_ explanation and I'll forgive you, just like that?" Sherlock opened his mouth to answer her, but Elspeth continued talking. "You have _no idea_ how much hurt you caused me – I spent _months_ in a psychiatric ward because I was diagnosed with depression, and I can't go one day without taking medication because if I don't, I am a serious risk to myself. Do you have any idea what that's like?"

"Elspeth," Sherlock said quietly, hoping his tone would soothe her, but it only made Elspeth angrier. She took a step forwards, now shouting at him.

"My whole life was _ruined_ because of your stupid idea and – oh my God," Elspeth said, cutting herself off as she realised something. Running a hand through her hair, she started to pace. "And Mycroft knew, didn't he? He knew and he _sent me away_ – oh, this is just brilliant. You two . . ." she shook her head.

"Elspeth," Sherlock said again. He took a step forwards, reaching for Elspeth. He didn't know what he was going to, if he was going to put his hand on her shoulder or try to hug her, but it didn't matter; Elspeth jerked away before he could touch her.

"I don't know if I can ever forgive you," Elspeth whispered, turning away so he wouldn't see the tears in her eyes. "Either of you."

* * *

"Oh bugger!" Mycroft swore, dropping the tweezers he was using in his and Sherlock's game of 'Operation'.

"Oopsie," Sherlock said. He looked at the piece Mycroft had unsuccessfully tried to remove. "Can't handle a broken heart – how _very_ telling."

"Don't be smart."

"That takes me back. 'Don't be smart, Sherlock. _I'm_ the smart one,'" Sherlock said with the voice of a young boy. Mycroft glowered back at him.

"I _am_ the smart one."

Sherlock reflected on his childhood years. "I used to think I was an idiot," he said.

"_Both _of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had nothing else to go on 'til we met other children."

"Oh, yes. _That_ was a mistake."

"Ghastly. What _were _they thinking of?"

"_Probably_ something about trying to make friends," Sherlock said with a grimace. Mycroft scoffed at the idea.

"Oh yes. _Friends_. Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now," he sneered.

"And you don't?" Sherlock asked, looking closely at Mycroft. "Ever?"

"If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what _real _people are like?" Mycroft retorted. "I'm living in a world of goldfish," he added with a pained expression.

"Yes, but I've been away for two years."

"So?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a . . . goldfish," he said delicately, watching Mycroft's expression turned from one of pain to one of complete horror.

"Change the subject. _Now_," Mycroft ordered sternly, then got up and walked over to the fireplace. Sherlock smirked, turning to the sofa to grin at Elspeth before remembering she wasn't there.

"Rest assured, Mycroft – whatever this underground network of yours is up to, the secret will reside in something seemingly insignificant or bizarre."

"Speaking of which," Mycroft murmured as Mrs Hudson walked into the living room, carrying a tray. Sherlock smiled at her.

"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it! Him – sitting in his chair again!" Mrs Hudson said happily. She put the tray on the dining room table and beamed at Mycroft. "Oh, isn't it wonderful, Mr Holmes?"

"I can barely contain myself," Mycroft said sarcastically.

"Oh, he really _can_, you know."

"He's secretly pleased to see you underneath all that . . ." Mrs Hudson's voice trailed off and she pulled a sour expression.

"Sorry, which of us?" Mycroft asked.

"_Both_ of you."

As Mrs Hudson left the room, Sherlock smiled at his housekeeper, then turned to Mycroft. "Let's play something different."

Mycroft sighed in exasperation. "Why are we playing games?"

"Well, London's terror alert has been raised to Critical." Sherlock's legs flailed over the coffee table as he stood up. "I'm just passing the time. Let's do deductions."

Despite his protests, Mycroft got pulled into a game of deductions, a game devised by the Holmes brothers when they were young. Sherlock would play it with Elspeth when she was young as well, and that was how she learned to make deductions.

The hat belonged to a man, and he was exceedingly sentimental about it – "One, perhaps two, patches would indicate sentimentality, but five? Five's excessive behaviour," Sherlock said. The client who'd left it behind had been abroad, had a nervous disposition and was a creature of habit, as indicated by the way he chewed the bobble on the left side of the hat but not on the right.

"But you've missed his isolation," Sherlock said after commenting on the state of his client's breath.

"I don't see it."

"Plain as day."

"Where?" Mycroft asked.

"There for all to see," Sherlock continued, enjoying it that he knew something his brother didn't.

"Tell me."

"Plain as the nose on your –"

"_Tell_ me," Mycroft repeated firmly. Sherlock turned to him.

"Well, anybody who wears a hat as stupid as this isn't in the habit of hanging around other people, is he?"

"Not at all," Mycroft disagreed. "Maybe he just doesn't mind being different. He doesn't necessarily have to be isolated."

"Exactly," Sherlock replied, looking down at the hat. His remark made Mycroft blink several times. He was confused.

"I'm sorry?"

"He's different – so what? Why would he mind? You're quite right," Sherlock said. He lifted the hat, perched it on the top of his head and gave his brother a pointed look. "Why would _anyone_ mind?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, but struggled to speak for a moment. ". . . I'm not lonely, Sherlock," he finally said. Tilting his head to the side, Sherlock looked closely at him as he took a step forwards.

"How would you know?" he asked. Mycroft stared back at him. Taking the hat off, Sherlock turned away again. Mrs Hudson smiled.

"Yes," Mycroft said, straightening up. "Back to work if you don't mind. Good morning," he said to Mrs Hudson, nodding at her as he left the flat, looking slightly wide eyed. Sherlock winked at Mrs Hudson.

"Right," Sherlock said. "Back to work."

* * *

"Thanks, Donovan – bloody hell." Lestrade sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jesus, Ellie, what is it with you two and sneaking up on me?"

Elspeth, who was sitting in Lestrade's chair with her feet up on his desk and a file on her lap, raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, so the great consulting detective has revealed himself to you as well?" she asked.

"I can tell you're pleased," Lestrade said sarcastically, walking forwards and taking the open file from Elspeth, who gave him an indignant look in return. "You're just as bad as he is, you know. _These_ –" he brandished the file at her. "are private."

"I'm bored," Elspeth complained. She swung the chair round and planted her feet on the ground, pouting up at Lestrade. "I need something to do."

"Go home. I'm sure Sherlock could use help with . . . whatever it is he does when he's at home," Lestrade finished lamely, frowning. He had no idea what Sherlock did with his spare time. He put the file back in the drawer Elspeth had taken it from.

"Yeah, that would be a bit difficult considering we're no longer talking to each other," Elspeth said. "Well," she added as an afterthought. "Technically, I'm not talking to him."

"Why?"

"Because he's a complete and utter –"

"Alright, I get the picture," Lestrade interrupted before Elspeth could say something rude. "Look, Ellie, it's great you're here, but you really can't be here."

"I've got nowhere else to go," Elspeth said sadly. She batted her eyelashes at Lestrade, gazing up at him with her big eyes. "John and Mary are at work. All my friends are on holiday. I'll be all by myself."

"Go home and make things up with Sherlock," Lestrade said. He perched on the edge of his desk, crossed his arms and tried not to succumb to the pitiful look in her eyes. Elspeth made it easier by then glaring at him.

"Why? He let me think he was dead for two years – I was in a psychiatric ward for months! And guess what? Mycroft knew as well. I mean, who _does _that?"

"He probably had good reason to. I know Sherlock, he wouldn't do anything without a reason," Lestrade told her. Elspeth glowered at him. "Trust me, Ellie, give it some time and things will go back to normal." An idea suddenly crept into Lestrade's mind. "Hey, there's a case I've got to go check out. Fancy tagging along?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, why not?"

Elspeth grinned back brightly. Lestrade smiled, but it felt more like a grimace. He knew she wouldn't be happy when she found out what he was doing.

* * *

"This one's got us all baffled," Lestrade said, tearing down the police tape that sealed the door of a building. Sherlock made a noise of agreement, and Molly, who was accompanying him – for some reason, she initially thought he was asking her out to dinner – followed them both down the stairs.

At the foot of the stairs was a large hole, and Lestrade switched on his torch as he led them through. On the far side of the room they walked into was a skeleton wearing an old fashioned suit and sitting at a table, holding a syringe in one hand. That wasn't what caught Sherlock's attention though.

"Ellie," Molly said in surprise. Elspeth turned around, saw Sherlock, and then glowered at Lestrade.

"I should've known you were up to something," she grumbled. Sherlock looked at Lestrade in surprise.

"This is nice," Lestrade said with a forced grin. "The two of you working together again!"

Elspeth crossed her arms and glared back at him, and Sherlock silently walked past her to sniff at the skeleton. After several deep sniffs, he straightened up and took out his phone.

"What is it?" Molly asked him, watching Sherlock hold his phone up high, trying to get signal. Elspeth stood to the side, her lips pursed together. "You're on to something, aren't you?"

"Maybe." _Show off,_ John's voice whispered in Sherlock's head. "Shut up, John."

As Sherlock carefully used tweezers to lift the lapel of the skeleton's jacket, Molly gave Elspeth a timid smile and stood by with her pen poised, ready to make any notes she might need to.

"This going be your new arrangement, is it?" Lestrade asked quietly.

"Just giving it a go," Sherlock replied. Molly was nice and enthusiastic, and having her around was helpful in some cases, but she wasn't John or Elspeth.

"Right. And John, Ellie?"

Sherlock sighed, risking a glance over his shoulder at Elspeth. She wasn't looking at him, but rather playing on her phone – texting someone, probably, or trying to get signal. He'd never understood until that moment how a person could be so close to someone, yet still so far away.

"Not really in the picture anymore."

Elspeth looked up as dust drifted down from the ceiling, a distant rumbling coming from above them. Instinctively, she took a step towards Sherlock. He did the same, craning his neck back. Lestrade smiled to himself.

"Trains?" Molly asked. Sherlock looked at her, then at Elspeth, and nodded.

"Trains."

While Sherlock brought up a mental compass that showed the orientation of the room, dropping into a crouch, Molly crossed the room to examine the bones. After a few seconds, Sherlock joined her.

"Male, forty to fifty," Molly said. Blushing, she looked at Sherlock. "Ooh, sorry, did you want to be . . . ?"

"Er, no, please. Be my guest." _Jealous? _Elspeth's voice asked, but when Sherlock looked at her again, he realised she hadn't opened her mouth. "_Shut up_," Sherlock hissed angrily through gritted teeth. Though she was still furious with him, Elspeth looked at him with worry.

The skeleton was a fake, no older than six months. "I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it to you," Sherlock said, trying to ignore John's voice as it spoke again: _smart arse._

"Since when have you been concerned about insulting people?" Elspeth muttered. It sounded almost like a joke, and Sherlock couldn't stop his lips from twitching when he glanced at her.

_You forgot to put your collar up,_ her voice added in his mind as Sherlock turned to leave. The internal commentary left him confused, stammering as he faced Lestrade and explained.

"The – the – the corpse is-is six months old, it's dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It's been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing south-east judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire-damage sale a week ago."

"So the whole thing was a fake," Lestrade said with a resigned sigh.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, leaving the room.

"Looked so promising."

"Facile," Sherlock called over his shoulder.

"Why would someone go to all that trouble?" Molly asked.

"Why indeed, John?"

Molly glanced at Lestrade, both of them feeling rather awkward, and Elspeth sighed as she stuffed her phone into the pocket of her jeans.

"Well," she said. "No offence, but this has been an inordinate amount of time that I will never get back, so before Lestrade can try to force Dad and I into more bonding activities, I'm going to head off. See you later."

Elspeth gave them a small wave as she turned and left the room, relieved when the cool air hit her. The basement had felt confined and stuffy, and it was hard to breathe in such close proximity to Sherlock.

"I didn't know," Sherlock suddenly said. Elspeth flinched. She hadn't realised he was also waiting outside. "about the psychiatric ward."

"I'm surprised Mycroft didn't tell you," Elspeth muttered sarcastically.

"I didn't want for that to happen to you."

"Amazingly, neither did I."

"Did Catherine visit you?" Sherlock asked tentatively. There was a selfish part of him that hoped she hadn't, purely because he'd always considered himself the better parent.

"Nope." Elspeth's smile was sarcastic. "Aren't I lucky to have such caring parents?"

"I didn't know," Sherlock repeated quietly, his voice so full of hurt that Elspeth looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. He looked sad. So sad. For a brief second, Elspeth contemplated forgiving him, but then she remembered how much he had hurt her, how many nights she had spent staring blankly at the walls because every time she tried to sleep, she just saw Sherlock falling. "I'm sorry, Ellie."

"I know," Elspeth said softly, turning and walking away. There were tears in her eyes but she wiped them away stubbornly, squeezing her eyes for a second.

She only got as far as turning the corner before someone bumped into her, something piercing her neck when she turned around to make a sarcastic remark. A soft groan escaped Elspeth's lips.

"Dad," she whimpered, the last thing she said before everything went black.

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, ElisePotterFreak, quidditchandsonicscrewdrivers, GeoryannWayson, Tayla, youngblood killjoy, Adrillian1497, SJBHasADayPass, Ms Moonshoes Potter, WerewolfHybrid13, bellechat, tardislover1, fmxc17, Starcrier, iwanttobeaneverdeen, ElizabethCullen08, 1Bedward, LittleGee, Nostalgic Beauty and zaredowneyokumura for reviewing!

Hurricane Ellie has arrived . . .

I love Lestrade, I really do; him trying to bring Sherlock and Ellie back together just struck me as something he might do.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, I'm off to go do psychology revision!


	4. Chapter 4

_**4.**_

"So, what's this all about, Mr Shilcott?" Sherlock asked, strolling into Howard Shilcott's living room. He was the client who had left the bobble hat behind.

"My girlfriend's a big fan of yours," Howard replied.

"Girlfriend?" Sherlock repeated with a sarcastic laugh. Molly threw him the _look_ – the same look Elspeth and Donovan and every woman Sherlock knew would give him. "Sorry. Do go on."

"I like trains. I work on the Tube, on the District Line, and part of my job is to wipe the security footage after it's been cleared," Howard explained, sitting at his computer. "I was just whizzing through and – er, I found something a bit bizarre." Sherlock gave Molly a look that made her giggle and Howard pulled up the footage on his computer screen. "Now, this was a week ago. The last train on the Friday night, Westminster station, and this man gets into the last car."

"Car?" Molly repeated, her nose crinkling slightly.

"They're cars, not carriages," Howard said with a hint of exasperation in his voice, like it was obvious. "It's a legacy of the early American involvement in the Tube system."

Molly turned to Sherlock. "He said he liked trains," he said.

"And the next stop . . ." Howard's voice trailed off as he showed the footage, missing the exchange between Sherlock and Molly. "St James's Park station . . . and . . ." The footage showed the doors of the last car opening. No one got out. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, interested.

"I thought you'd like it," Howard said with a grin. He replayed the footage. "He gets into the last car at Westminster, the _only_ passenger, and the car is empty at St James's Park station. Explain _that_, Mr Holmes."

"Couldn't he have just jumped off?" Molly asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"There's a safety mechanism that prevents the doors from opening in transit," Howard told her. "But there's something else. The driver of that train hasn't been to work since. According to his flatmate, he's on holiday. Came into some money."

"Bought off?" Sherlock suggested, turning to Molly. She gave him a blank look, blushing when Sherlock looked back at Howard.

"So if the driver of the train was in on it, then the passenger _did_ get off," he said.

"There's nowhere he could go. It's a straight run on the District Line between the two stations. There's no side tunnels, no maintenance tunnels – nothing on _any_ map. _Nothing_. The train never stops, and the man vanishes. Good, innit?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, replaying a close up of the passenger on the platform. "I know that face."

Suddenly, Sherlock turned and strode out of Howard's flat, leaving Molly to awkwardly thank him for his time and apologise for Sherlock's abrupt departure. While the detective stood at the top of the stairs, still deep in thought, Molly sighed and waited at the bottom.

"The journey between those stations usually takes five minutes. That journey took ten minutes – ten minutes to get from Westminster to St James's Park," Sherlock said, opening his eyes. "So I'm going to need maps – lots of maps, older maps, all the maps."

"Right."

"Fancy some chips?" he asked, trotting down the steps. "I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions."

"Did you get him off a murder charge?" Molly asked.

"No, I helped him put up some shelves."

For some reason, it made Molly giggle when Sherlock told her that, and Sherlock smiled to himself.

"Sherlock," she said hesitantly. He turned to face her. "What was today about?"

"Saying thank you," Sherlock said without hesitation. "For everything you did for me."

"It's okay. It was my pleasure," Molly said, giving Sherlock a small smile as she turned and walked towards the door.

"No, I mean it," Sherlock called after her.

"I don't mean 'pleasure'," Molly stammered, facing him again. "I mean, I didn't mind. I wanted to." She cringed. Why was she saying that? "I'm sure Ellie won't stay mad at you forever," she said. "She'll forgive you and you can do this together again." Her breath caught slightly when Sherlock took a step closer.

"Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible," Sherlock told her. The way he looked at her made Molly's stomach twist. "But you can't do _this_ again, can you?"

Despite herself, Molly smiled. "I had a lovely day. I'd love to – I just . . . um . . ." her voice trailed off as she looked down, Sherlock following her gaze.

"Oh, congratulations, by the way," he said, his eyes resting on the engagement ring.

"He's not from work," Molly blurted out. Sherlock smiled. "We met through friends, the old-fashioned way. He's nice. We . . . he's got a dog . . . we – we go to the pub on weekends and he . . . I've met his mum and dad and his friends and all his family and I've no idea why I'm telling you this," she admitted finally, her cheeks tinged pink.

"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. After all, not _all_ the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths."

Molly gazed up at him. She had a peculiar way of looking at him, Sherlock noticed, like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words or courage. When Molly looked at him, her eyes always held a sense of pride and awe; she regarded him as some sort of hero, someone to be admired, and after years of her assistance, Sherlock was slowly realising just how vital Molly was in his life.

"No?" she asked softly.

"No," Sherlock promised. He gave her a smile – a beautiful smile that made her happy and sad at the same time – and leaned in, his lips pressing against her cheek. Molly closed her eyes, treasuring the moment.

"Maybe it's just my type," Molly whispered, watching Sherlock's retreating back.

* * *

**Save souls now! John or James Watson? Saint or Sinner? James or John? The more is Less? **

Mary frowned, rereading the text a few times, before turning around and striding back down the street. It didn't take her long to reach 221B.

"Mrs Hudson," Mary said, relieved when Mrs Hudson opened the door and gently pushing her way in. "Sorry – I – I think someone's got John – John Watson." She darted upstairs, into the living room. Sherlock turned at the sound of her voice.

"Hang on!" Mrs Hudson called, chasing her. "Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm his fiancée," Mary explained. Mrs Hudson smiled, appeased, and walked back down the stairs.

"Mary?" Sherlock asked, walking through to the landing. "What's wrong?"

"Someone sent me this." Mary took out her phone, showing Sherlock her phone. "At first I thought it was just a Bible thing, you know, spam, but it's not. It's a skip-code."

Sherlock looked at her closely, frowning, then turned his attention to the phone. "First word, then every third," he murmured. "Save . . . John . . . Watson." Mary showed his the rest of the text, three words standing out: Saint James the Less. "Now!" Sherlock cried urgently, dropping his chips and racing down the stairs.

"Where are we going?"

"St James the Less. It's a church. Twenty minutes by car." He raced out into the street. "Did you drive here?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock started to pace. "Too slow, too slow," he said. "Ellie!" Sherlock cried suddenly, whirling around to face Mary. "Have you heard from Ellie?"

"Not since this morning," Mary said. Realisation dawned on her. "Oh God, no."

He barely heard her, however, as Sherlock stepped into the path of an oncoming motorcycle and held a hand out. The driver slammed on the brakes, the bike skidding to a halt.

A minute later, Sherlock and Mary had taken the helmets of the driver and his passenger, both of them commandeering the motorcycle; Sherlock had thrown some money at the protesting driver in a desperate attempt to appease him before climbing on in front of Mary.

The bike raced through the streets, Sherlock calculating how long it would take for them to get to St James the Less Church. Mary's phone trilled a text alert: Getting warmer Mr Holmes. You have about ten minutes.

Mary tried ringing and texting Elspeth, but she wouldn't respond. Sherlock's heart raced. If something had happened to them, either of them, he would never forgive himself.

**8 minutes and counting. **

The bike accelerated, but skidded to a stop when roadblocks stopped them from going any further. Sherlock swore loudly, quickly worked out an alternative route and turned the bike around, riding it onto the pavement between two buildings. The pavement descended into stairs suddenly, but it didn't deter Sherlock as he continued to accelerate.

* * *

John couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He tried to move his hands and lift his head, but he fell back on the ground, groaning. Rolling his head to the side, his eyes flickered when he saw a silhouette of another person lying next to him. After a few seconds, John realised it was Elspeth. She was unconscious.

"Ellie," he croaked. "Ellie, wake up."

Elspeth didn't stir. John wasn't even sure if she was breathing.

Somewhere – John couldn't tell where, he was surrounded by wood and leaves – people were talking and cheering and shouting, like they were watching a great event. John tried to cry out, but all he could manage was a faint moan, and he started to thrash around, trying to break free from the rope that held his wrists together.

Then it was hot. It was so hot. John could feel the heat burning and scalding him. He could hear the flicker of flames as they caught onto the bonfire surrounding him, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't manage anything more than a soft moan. John tried to cry out and wake up Elspeth and let everyone know that they were trapped, but he couldn't.

* * *

**Better hurry, things are hotting up here . . .**

Sherlock sped the motorcycle up, but their journey was impeded by a slow moving lorry.

Stay of execution. You've got two more minutes.

When Mary showed him the text, Sherlock consulted his mental map; if he took the motorcycle in a straight line, they would arrive at the Church in one minute. Swerving, the bike tore down a pedestrian underpass. He forced the bike up a flight of steps and out onto the street again.

**What a shame Mr Holmes. John is quite a Guy!**

Mary showed Sherlock the text. "What does it mean?" she shouted over the wind whipping in their ears. Sherlock's head whipped around as the bonfire blazed suddenly, the onlookers cheering.

"Oh my God," he said. Sherlock accelerated the bike towards the only gap in the fence surrounding the square, racing it into the park. He and Mary jumped off, the bike dropping to the ground on its side; Sherlock raced towards the fire, pushing people out of his way.

"John!" he shouted. "Ellie!"

"Get them out!" Mary yelled behind him. Crouching down, Sherlock peered into the fire as he threw bits of wood out of the way, not caring that the fire burned his hands. He had to find them.

"Help!" John screamed from deep in the bonfire. Sherlock plunged his arm in, throwing pieces of the bonfire to the side as he cleared a path, grabbing hold of John's arms. He hauled him up and out, Mary grabbing hold of him so Sherlock could then search for Elspeth. Catching sight of her still body, Sherlock screamed her name and threw himself deeper into the bonfire, barely noticing the sleeve of his coat catching. His hands groped for her, eventually finding her arm.

Sherlock pulled as hard as he could, wrapping his arms around Elspeth as soon as she was close enough and picking her up. He barely had enough strength to keep them both upright, collapsing to his knees with her lying next to him.

"Ellie," Sherlock said, rolling her onto her back. "Ellie, wake up."

She wasn't breathing. Why wasn't she breathing?

"Ellie," Sherlock repeated desperately.

Suddenly, Elspeth coughed. Her eyes flickered open as she rolled onto her side, coughing and spluttering and trying to catch what little breath she had left. Whimpering, Elspeth swayed from side to side, leaning heavily against Sherlock when he gently pulled her upright, both of them sitting on the ground by the bonfire. Someone called an ambulance; Elspeth vaguely recognised the sirens.

"Am I dead?" she moaned, her voice hoarse. Sherlock laughed softly.

"No," he said. Holding her close, he stroked strands of hair off her sweaty forehead. "You're fine."

"Don't feel it," Elspeth mumbled, her eyes sliding shut. She said something under her breath.

"Don't mutter, Elspeth," Sherlock scolded lightly, pulling her even closer to his chest. "What did you say?"

". . . didn't miss this," Elspeth murmured, and despite everything, Sherlock leaned down and pressed a kiss to her head.

"I did," he admitted softly.

* * *

". . . which wasn't the way I'd put it at all. Silly woman. Anyway, it was then that I first noticed it was missing. I said, 'Have you checked down the back of the sofa?'" Wanda continued. She'd been talking for some time. Sherlock screwed his face up, pressing his fingers together as he struggled to concentrate. "He's _always_ losing things down the back of the sofa, aren't you, dear?"

"Afraid so," Timothy, her husband, agreed with a smile.

"Keys, small change, sweeties. Especially his glasses. Blooming things. I said, 'Why don't you get a chain – wear 'em round your neck?' And he says, 'What – like Larry Grayson?'"

Sighing, Sherlock looked across at John's armchair. Elspeth was curled up in it, listening to the older couple with a small smile on her face. She'd arrived at 221B early that morning, coughing but recovered from the previous night. "I'm only here because they are," Elspeth had warned him when she walked upstairs. They both knew it wasn't quite true.

"So did you find it eventually, your lottery ticket?" Sherlock asked, rising to his feet and stepping on the sofa between the couple. They both leaned out of the way, gazing up at him with confusion.

"Well, yes, thank goodness. We caught the coach on time after all. We managed to see St Paul's, the Tower . . . but they weren't letting anyone in to Parliament," Wanda said with a hint of regret. Sherlock frowned and looked down at her. "Some big debate going on."

The living room door opened, John stopping and looking at the couple in surprise as he walked in.

"Sorry, you're busy," he said.

"Er, no – no – no, they were just leaving," Sherlock said, stepping off the sofa and pulling Wanda to her feet. Laughing, Elspeth crossed the room, surprising John even more by kissing both of them on the cheek.

"No, no, if you've got a case . . ." John tried to protest, moving out of the way as Sherlock continued to usher the man and his wife out of the room.

"No, not a case, no – no – no. Go," Sherlock said to Wanda. "Bye."

"Yeah, well, we're here 'til Saturday, remember."

"Yes, great, wonderful. Just get out," Sherlock insisted, herding them out into the hallway. Before he could shut the door, Wanda turned and stuck her shoe into the doorway, forcing Sherlock to keep it open. He glowered at her.

"I can't tell you how glad we are, Sherlock. All that time people thinking the worst of you," she said quietly. "We're just _so_ pleased it's all over." Sherlock tried to force the door shut. Wanda didn't budge.

"Ring up more often, won't you?" Timothy asked. Sherlock made a noise of agreement under his breath. "She_ worries_."

"Promise?" Wanda asked. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, his eyes flickering between John, who was pretending not to notice the exchange, and Elspeth, who was grinning widely from ear to ear. Finally, he promised. Wanda smiled, reached up and gently touched Sherlock's cheek.

"Oh, for God . . ." Sherlock shoved the door shut, letting out a deep sigh as he turned to face John. "Sorry about that."

"No, it's fine. Clients?"

Sherlock and Elspeth exchanged a look. "Family," she told John. "My grandparents. His parents."

"In town for a few days," Sherlock explained when John turned his incredulous gaze on him. "Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of "_Les Mis_". Tried to talk _me_ into doing it."

"Those were you parents?"

"Yes."

"Well . . ." John's voice trailed off as he laughed to himself. "That is not what I . . . I mean they're just . . . so . . ." Sherlock gave him a hard gaze, narrowing his eyes. "Ordinary," John finally said with a smile. Elspeth grinned.

"It's a cross I have to bear," Sherlock complained. "Ellie likes them for some reason."

"Did _they_ know, too?" John asked. Sherlock wouldn't meet his gaze. "That you spent the last two years playing hide and seek." Elspeth's grin faded and Sherlock continued to avoid looking at either of them.

"Maybe," he said.

"Ah! So _that's_ why they weren't at the funeral."

"Sorry," Sherlock said. He looked up then, first meeting John's eyes, then Elspeth's. "Sorry _again_." John took a step towards the door. "Sorry," Sherlock repeated softly. He smiled. "See you've shaved it off, then."

"Yeah, it wasn't working for me," John admitted.

"I'm glad."

"What, you didn't like it?"

"I don't think anyone liked it," Elspeth said with an apologetic tone in her voice.

"I prefer my doctor's clean shaven," Sherlock said with a grin.

"That's not a sentence you hear every day!" John said incredulously, slowly crossing the room and taking his usual seat in his armchair, which Elspeth had vacated when she said goodbye to her grandparents.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked him.

"Yeah, not bad, bit . . . smoked."

Elspeth laughed at that, but started coughing mid-way through. Sherlock and John exchanged worried glances.

"Last night – who did that? And why did they target us?"

"I don't know."

"Is it to do with the terrorist thing?" Elspeth asked when she stopped coughing.

"I don't know," Sherlock repeated. "I can't see the pattern. It's too nebulous." He looked towards the wall by the sofa, his eyes flickering over the information he had pinned up. "Why would an agent give his life to tell us something incredibly insignificant? That's what's strange."

"Give his life?"

"According to Mycroft. There's an underground network planning an attack on London – that's all we know. These are my rats, John."

"Rats?"

"My markers: agents, low-lifes, people who might find themselves arrested or their diplomatic immunity suddenly rescinded. If one of them starts acting suspiciously, we know something's up. Five of them are behaving perfectly normally, but the sixth . . ." Sherlock pointed towards a photo. It was the man who got into the train and disappeared. "Lord Moran, peer of the realm, Minister for Overseas Development. Pillar of the establishment."

"Yes!" John said excitedly, rising to his feet.

"He's been working for North Korea since 1996."

"What?" Elspeth asked, frowning.

"He's the Big Rat. Rat Number One," Sherlock said. "And he's just done something _very _suspicious indeed."

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, meg, GeorgyannWayson, quidditchandsonicscrewdrivers, youngblood killjoy, Greeting'sAndSaltations, Ms Moonshoes Potter, tardislover1, Starcrier, Nostalgic Beauty, Anna, Aimee, bellechat, KirstyLaura, ElizabethCullen08, Tayla, zare downey okumura, iwanttobeaneverdeen, Adrillian1497, fmxc17 and LoverofWords22 for reviewing!

The names of Sherlock's parents were never actually specified, so I decided to name after Benedict Cumberbatch's parents, who did an awesome job in their roles :')

I've had to write chapters 4-6 about seven times now (I'm not exaggerating) because my laptop kept crashing yesterday. It was highly irritating but I'm nearly there! I wouldn't expect an update this weekend though, as it's actually my birthday tomorrow! I'm going to be eighteen and a legal adult, but I highly doubt it'll make me any more mature . . . hope you enjoyed the chapter! It only took me a whole day to rewrite!


	5. Chapter 5

_**5.**_

John's coat was on the back of his armchair. Sherlock sat at the living room table with Elspeth by his side and John standing behind them, their eyes fixed on Howard's footage of the Tube train disappearance.

"Yeah, that's . . . odd. There's nowhere he could have got off?" John asked.

"Not according to the maps," Sherlock said. "There's something – something, _something_ I'm missing, something staring me in the face." His phone beeped a text alert and he took it out of his pocket. Elspeth replayed the footage, her forehead creasing slightly.

"Intelligence must have a list of the most obvious ones," John said thoughtfully.

"Our rat's just come out of his den," Sherlock said.

"Al-Qaeda, the IRA have been getting restless again – maybe they're going to make an appearance . . ."

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, _YES_!" Sherlock cried suddenly, jumping to his feet. "I've been an idiot – a blind _idiot_!"

"Finally, he admits it," Elspeth muttered.

"Oh, that's good. That could be _brilliant_."

"What are you on about?" John asked him.

"Mycroft's intelligence – it's not nebulous at all. It's specific – _incredibly_ specific."

"_What_ do you mean?"

Sherlock whirled around to face him, his eyes shining with overwhelming excitement. "Not an underground network, John. It's an _Underground_ network."

John nodded. He pursed his lips together. He looked at Sherlock blankly. "Right . . . what?"

"Sometimes a deception is so audacious, so outrageous that you can't see it even when it's staring you in the face," Sherlock said. He leaned over Elspeth and replayed the footage. "Look – seven carriages leave Westminster – but only _six_ carriages arrive at St James's Park."

"Oh my God," Elspeth said quietly. She looked up at Sherlock, her eyes lighting up. "Is that even possible?"

"Moran didn't disappear – the entire Tube compartment did. The driver must have diverted the train and then detached the last carriage."

"Detached it where?" John asked. "You said there was nothing between those stations."

"Not on the maps, but once you eliminate all the other factors, the only thing remaining must be the truth," Sherlock said. He pointed at the footage. "That carriage vanished, so it must be _somewhere._"

Elspeth frowned, curling one leg up to her chest and wrapping her arm around it. She rested her chin on her knee. "Why would you detach it in the first place though?"

"It vanishes between St James's Park and Westminster. Lord Moran vanishes. You're both kidnapped and nearly burned to death at a fireworks par . . ." Sherlock's voice trailed off. He looked at John. "What's the date, John – today's date?"

"November the . . . oh God."

"Lord Moran – he's a peer of the realm," Sherlock said, looking up and slowly walking towards the wall with all the information pinned up on it. "Normally he'd sit in the House. Tonight there's an all-night sitting to vote on the new anti-terrorism Bill." Sherlock stopped. He smiled. "But he won't be there. Not tonight. Not the fifth of November."

"Remember remember," Elspeth murmured softly, lifting her eyes to meet Sherlock's across the room.

"Gunpowder, treason and plot," Sherlock finished.

* * *

"There's nothing down there, Mr Holmes, I told you," Howard insisted, sitting in his living room with the bobble hat perched on his head while he Skyped. Elspeth sat at the table, watching Sherlock and John frantically search through the maps. "No sidings, no ghost stations."

"There _has_ to be," Sherlock said. He turned the laptop so John could see the screen. "Check again."

"Look – this whole area is a big mess of old and new stuff," John pointed out. "Charing Cross is made up of bits of older stations like Trafalgar Square, Strand . . ."

"No, it's none of those. We've accounted for those." Sherlock looked closer at the map, aware that Elspeth was watching him. "St Margaret's Street, Bridge Street, Sumatra Road, Parliament Street . . ."

"Hang on, hang on," Howard said, taking the bobble he'd been chewing out of his mouth. "Road. You mentioned Sumatra Road, Mr Holmes." He leaned off screen. "There _is_ something. I _knew _it rang a bell. Where is it?" he muttered to himself. Howard appeared on screen again. "There _was_ a station down there."

"Well, why isn't it on the maps?" John asked.

"'Cause it was closed before it ever opened."

Elspeth screwed her nose up. "What?"

"They built the platforms, even the staircases, but it all got tied up in legal disputes, so they never built the station on the surface," Howard explained, holding a book up to the camera so they could see the relevant page. Sherlock slowly straightened up.

"It's right underneath the Palace of Westminster," he said.

"And so what's down there? A bomb?" John asked, half joking. Sherlock turned and strode out of the room. "Oh."

* * *

"So it's a bomb, then? A Tube carriage is carrying a bomb," John said, the three of them striding through the corridors of Westminster station.

"Must be."

"Right." John reached into his pocket, taking his phone out.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, glancing at him.

"Calling the police," John explained. Sherlock began to protest. "Sherlock, this isn't a game," John hissed. "They need to evacuate Parliament."

"They'll get in the way. They always do. This is cleaner, more efficient," Sherlock told him. He stopped at a locked maintenance entrance, reached into his pocket and held a hairpin out to Elspeth, who gazed at it in surprise.

"I thought you'd have a crowbar," she said with a wry grin, taking the hairpin and crouching down by the padlock.

"I do. It's Plan B," Sherlock replied, showing her the crowbar he had in the inside pocket of his coat. He planned on using it in case Elspeth didn't show up, or refused to pick the lock for them. It took her a bit longer than usual, which Sherlock pointed out.

"I'm out of practice," Elspeth grumbled. She pushed the gate open and squeezed through the gap, followed by Sherlock.

"This is illegal," John pointed out. Elspeth grinned.

"Only a bit."

Reluctantly, John pushed himself through the gap and Sherlock closed the gate behind him. He took out a torch, beginning to walk into the maintenance tunnels, and while Elspeth followed, John held back, checking his phone.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked without looking over his shoulder. John sighed.

"Coming," he called, putting his phone away. The three continued walking for a long time, their footsteps echoing throughout the narrow tunnels and walkways. Elspeth shivered, shuffling a bit closer to Sherlock without realising it. He smiled to himself.

Finally, when they walked onto the platform of Sumatra Road station, Sherlock shone his torch along the length of the track. There was no train.

"I don't understand."

"Well, _that's _a first!" John said sarcastically, irritable from walking for so long. Elspeth laughed. Sherlock didn't notice.

"There's nowhere else it could be," he said. Turning to face the track, he brought his hands up to the sides of his head, screwing his eyes shut in concentration. After a few seconds of thought, Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Oh!" Sherlock cried, running towards the end of the platform.

"What?" John asked, chasing after him. Elspeth sighed and followed them.

Sherlock jumped off the end of the platform, onto the tracks, and turned around to help Elspeth down. She sat on the edge and slid off, Sherlock's hands keeping her steady when she landed on her feet.

"Sherlock," John said, warily looking down at the train tracks. "That's . . . isn't it live?"

"We're fine as long as we don't touch the rails," Elspeth said. Both men looked at her in surprise. She grinned sheepishly. "Did you really expect me to spend two years just sitting around?"

John frowned, staring at her as he tried to remember if he'd ever noticed Elspeth sneaking in and out of the flat. "Course, yeah," he finally said. "Don't touch the trails. Right."

He jumped down onto the tracks, following Sherlock and Elspeth. It wasn't long before they found the missing carriage, hidden partway around the gentle bend. Sherlock looked up and saw a large open vent, shining his torch on it. There were several small explosive devices attached to the sides.

"Demolition charges," John said.

They continued towards the carriage. John ducked down, shining his torch underneath, before following Sherlock and Elspeth into the carriage. Sherlock and John shone their torches over the ceiling and floor, and Elspeth's eyes flickered about the seats as she walked past them.

"It's empty," John said with a sigh of relief. "There's nothing."

Elspeth looked at John briefly, her eyes flickering towards Sherlock.

"Isn't there?" he asked. Sherlock lifted a cushion, shining his torch on it. "This is the bomb." He pulled the cushion up to reveal the explosive device hidden underneath. "It's not _carrying_ explosives. The whole compartment _is_ the bomb."

Turning around, Elspeth lifted a seat cushion at random. There was an explosive device underneath. She lifted another, then another, and her heart missed a beat when she realised that under each one was an explosive device.

Sherlock knelt on the ground, forcing his fingers into the gap of the loose floor panel and lifting it. Underneath was an explosive device considerably larger than the ones under the cushions. John took in several nervous breaths when he saw it. Elspeth stared at Sherlock.

"We need bomb disposal," John said.

"There may not be time for that now."

"What do we do?" Elspeth asked, her eyes darting between them.

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds. "I have no idea."

"Well, think of something," John said sternly, disguising his fear.

"Why do you think _I_ know what to do?" Sherlock demanded.

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes! You're as clever as it gets!"

"Doesn't mean I know how to defuse a giant bomb. What about you?"

"I wasn't in bomb disposal. I'm a bloody doctor."

"And a soldier, as you keep reminding us all," Sherlock said angrily, pointing his torch at John.

"Can't – can't we rip the timer off?" Elspeth asked desperately.

Sherlock shook his head. "That would set it off," he said.

"You see? You_ know_ things!"

Suddenly, the lights came on and the countdown clock on the bomb started to tick. The three looked at it in shock, a low moan escaping John's lips.

"God," he said. "Why didn't you call the police? Why do you _never_ call the police?"

"Well, it's no use now," Sherlock snapped back irritably.

"So you _can't_ switch the bomb off? You _can't_ switch the bomb off and you didn't call the police," John said angrily. He turned away for a moment, then turned to face Sherlock. Elspeth whimpered.

"Go, Ellie," Sherlock said, his eyes meeting Elspeth's across the carriage. "Both of you – go, _now_."

"There's no point now, is there, because there's not enough time to get away, and if we don't do this –" John gestured towards the explosive device. "other people will _die_!" he looked down at the countdown. "Mind Palace!" he said suddenly. "Use your Mind Palace!"

"How will _that_ help?"

"You've salted away every fact under the sun!"

"Oh, and you think I've just got 'How To Defuse A Bomb' tucked away in there somewhere?" Sherlock retorted.

"_Yes_," Elspeth said desperately. "Please, Dad, think."

Sherlock looked at her, then squeezed his eyes shut. As he concentrated, he pressed his fingers to the side of his head. He frowned. His hands started to flail and his eyes remained close even though he couldn't find a solution. Moaning, Sherlock opened his eyes. He breathed heavily. Slowly, Sherlock looked at John and Elspeth with an apologetic expression.

"Oh my God," John said. Elspeth shut her eyes, supressing the tears that sprung to them. Tearing his scarf from his neck, Sherlock doubled over helplessly, burying his head in his hands. He dropped to his knees. "This is it."

Elspeth whimpered under her breath, clinging to the nearest handrail as tears started to roll down her cheeks.

Sherlock continued to flail uselessly, raising his head. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. His eyes filled with tears. "I can't . . . I can't do it, John. I don't know how." Sherlock straightened up, gazing at John and Elspeth. "Forgive me?"

"_What_?" John asked tightly.

"Please, John, Ellie forgive me . . . for all the hurt that I caused you," Sherlock said, his voice so full of hurt that Elspeth opened her eyes, staring back at him.

"No, no, no, no, no, no," John said, waving his finger at Sherlock. "This is a trick."

"No."

"Another one of your bloody tricks."

"No," Sherlock repeated.

"You're just trying to make me say something nice," John accused. Sherlock laughed softly.

"Not this time."

"It's just to make you look good even though you behaved like . . ." John's voice trailed off. He grimaced, fighting back tears while trying to steady his breathing. Sherlock slowly rose to his feet, sitting on the edge of a nearby seat. John gripped a handrail and looked down at the floor. "I wanted you not to be dead," he said in a low voice.

"Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for," Sherlock said. John sighed.

"If I hadn't come back, you wouldn't be standing there and . . . you'd still have a future with Mary, and Ellie . . ." Sherlock paused, his eyes resting on Elspeth. She looked back at him, crying silently. Even after everything that had happened, he was thankful for what little time he'd spent with Elspeth. Sherlock didn't know what love was until he held her in his arms for the first time. "Who knows where you'd be, Ellie, you're the most unpredictable person here."

Elspeth's smile was forced and only lasted a few seconds before she grimaced, ducking her head as more tears ran down her cheeks. Sherlock clenched his fist and held it against his mouth, wiping his nose. Finally, John turned back to him.

"Look, I find it difficult," he said quietly. "I find it difficult, this sort of stuff." John blew out a long breath, lowered his head, and then looked at Sherlock again. "You were the best and the wisest man that I have ever known," he whispered.

Sherlock looked back at John, his eyes wide and tear-filled. John sighed.

"Yes, of _course_ I forgive you," he said.

A sense of relief washed over Sherlock. Sighing, he looked at Elspeth. She clenched her fist so hard that her nails dug into her palm, biting down on her lip until she tasted blood. She was shaking. She couldn't stop shaking.

"Ellie," Sherlock said. "I have caused you so much hurt, and I don't expect you to forgive me, but please know that I am really, truly sorry. I . . . I only did it to protect you, both of you. I had no idea that any of this would happen."

Leaning against the rail, Elspeth squeezed her eyes. She wiped the tears away with her sleeve.

Sherlock had hurt her so much. There were sleepless nights and long days and times where Elspeth didn't know how she was going to carry on.

But then she remembered the good times she and Sherlock had. The grins, the laughter, the times that Elspeth would never forget because she felt so happy that nothing else in the world mattered. Despite the arguments and the bad times, Elspeth knew that she loved Sherlock and that he loved her as well.

"I . . . I forgive you," Elspeth whispered. Sherlock looked at her. "I forgive you," she repeated.

Sobbing, Elspeth let go of the handrail and stumbled forwards, tripping over her own feet in her haste. Sherlock sighed in relief when she dropped into the seat next to him, looping her arm around his and burying her face into his shoulder. Sherlock rested his cheek on the top of her head.

A tear ran down Elspeth's cheek. John shut his eyes. Sherlock sighed.

They waited.

* * *

Thank you quidditchandsonicscrewdrivers, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, ScissorLuv143, Aimee, xXSchmayXx, Guest, GeorgyannWayson, Nostalgic Beauty, tardislover1, Ms Moonshoes Potter, Starcrier, Darcy, nakari ash, dustdancingintheflickerlight, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion, EICochrane, xXBloodyIllusionXx, Tayla, iwanttobeaneverdeen, raggedyponds, Daizydoo3, Meg, fmxc17, ElizabethCullen08, bellechat and Ftlouie1 for reviewing!

And thank you all for the birthday wishes, I had a lovely weekend - Camden Market on my birthday, then a huge family party on the Sunday in the pub. I'm exhausted after it all though!


	6. Chapter 6

_**6.**_

John gripped the handrail tightly, ducking his head and exhaling heavily. Sherlock was shaking. The back of his hand was pressed against his mouth as his whole body shook. Lowering his hand, Sherlock turned away, then turned back to John and Elspeth, hooting with laughter. Elspeth raised her head. Frowning, John took a step forwards. His eyes widened with realisation.

"You . . ."

"Oh my God," Elspeth whispered. The countdown on the device flickered between **1:28 **and **1:29**.

Standing up, Sherlock laughed hysterically, tears running down his cheek. "Oh your face!" he cried.

". . . _utter_ . . ." John breathed.

"Your face! I totally had you!"

"Oh my God," Elspeth said, running her hands through her hair and leaning back as she laughed with relief. "Oh my God," she repeated angrily, realising what Sherlock had done. She stood up and whacked Sherlock on the arm. "_You_ –" she hit again. "– _utter_ –" and again. "– _arse_!"

"You _cock_! I knew it! I knew it!" John shouted. "You f . . ."

"Oh, those things you said – such sweet things! I – I never knew you cared!" Sherlock said, wrapping his arms around Elspeth's shoulders and pulling her close so she couldn't hit him again.

"I _will_ kill you if you ever breathe a word of this to _anyone_!" John threatened. "_You KNEW! _You knew how to turn it off!"

"There's an off switch," Sherlock told them. "There's _always_ an off switch. Terrorists can get into _all_ sorts of problems unless there's an off switch." He let go of Elspeth so she could see the switch.

"I hate you," she said.

"No you don't."

"So why did you let us go through all that?" John asked tightly.

"I didn't lie altogether. I've absolutely _no_ idea how to turn any of these silly little lights off," Sherlock replied, laughing and wiping the tears off his cheeks.

"I really hate you," Elspeth announced.

"No you don't," Sherlock repeated, playfully pinching Elspeth's cheeks. "You forgive me, remember?" he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, laughing when she batted away and glowered at him.

A voice could be heard over a walkie-talkie radio through the open door, shortly followed by torch lights approaching the carriage.

"And you _did _call the police," John said.

"Of _course_ I called the police," Sherlock retorted.

"I'm definitely going to kill you."

"Oh please," Sherlock scoffed. "Killing me – that's _so _two years ago."

Despite everything, John laughed. Sherlock grinned, turned to Elspeth, and felt a sense of hope swell when she grinned back at him.

"I agree with John," she said as she followed Sherlock out of the carriage. "I'm going to kill you."

* * *

"The criminal network Moriarty headed was vast. Its roots were everywhere like a cancer, so we came up with a plan. Mycroft fed Moriarty information about me. Moriarty in turn gave us hints – just hints – as to the extent of his web. We let him go because it was important to let him believe he had the upper hand. And then I sat back and watched Moriarty destroy my reputation bit by bit.

"I had to make him believe he'd beaten me, utterly defeated me, and then he'd show his hand. There were thirteen likely scenarios once we were up on that roof. Each of them were rigorously worked out and given a code name. It wasn't just my reputation that Moriarty needed to bury – I had to die.

"But the one thing I didn't anticipate was just how far Moriarty was prepared to go. I suppose that was obvious, given our first meeting at the swimming pool – his death wish. I knew I didn't have long. I contacted my brother, set the wheels in motion. And then everyone got to work.

"It was vital that John and Ellie stayed just where I put them. That way, his view was blocked by the ambulance station.

"I needed to hit the airbag – which I did. Speed was paramount. The airbag needed to be got out of the way just as John and Ellie cleared the station. But we needed them to see a body. That's where Molly came in.

"Like figures on a weather clock, we went one way, they went the other. Then our well-timed cyclist put John briefly out of action giving me time to switch places with the corpse on the pavement. I knew Ellie's reaction time would be slower than usual.

"The rest was just window dressing. One final touch – a squash ball under the armpit. Apply enough pressure and it momentarily cuts off the pulse. Ellie could touch me briefly and not feel a thing.

"Everything was anticipated; every eventuality allowed for. It worked perfectly," Sherlock concluded with a smile.

"Molly? Molly Hooper? She _was_ in on it?" Anderson asked.

"Yes. You remember the little girl who was abducted by Moriarty? You assumed she reacted like that because I was her kidnapper. But I deduced Moriarty must have found someone who looked very like me to plant suspicion, and that that man – whoever he was – had to be got out of the way as soon as his usefulness ended. That meant there was a corpse in a morgue somewhere that looked just like me."

Anderson nodded. "Clever."

"Molly found the body, faked the records, and I provided the other coat. I've got lots of coats."

"And what about the sniper aiming at John?"

"Mycroft's men intervened before he could take the shot. He was invited to reconsider."

"And Ellie? You said Moriarty threatened her as well."

"Mycroft's men were stationed in the hospital and ready to intervene, though I have every confidence that Ellie would've been able to fight off anyone who tried to hurt her," Sherlock said with a smile, remembering all the times Elspeth had slapped or punched someone in his defence.

"And your homeless network?"

"As I explained, the whole street was closed off, like a scene from a play. Neat, don't you think?"

Anderson looked thoughtful, then shrugged. "Not the way _I'd_ have done it," he said.

"Oh really? Sherlock asked, folding his arms.

"No, I'm not saying it's not clever, but . . ." Anderson's voice trailed off as he waved his arms, searching for the right words. ". . . bit . . . disappointed."

"Everyone's a critic," Sherlock said with a sigh. "Anyway, that's not why I came."

"No?"

"No. I think you _know_ why I'm here, Phillip. 'How I Did It' by Jack the Ripper."

Anderson's eyes widened, his mouth open. "Didn't you think it was intriguing?" he asked Sherlock hopefully.

"Lurid," Sherlock said. He stood up. "A case so sensational, you hoped I'd be interested. But you overdid it, Phillip – you and your little 'fan club'." He started to pace around Anderson.

"I just couldn't live with myself, knowing that I'd driven you to –" Anderson cut himself off.

"But you didn't. You were always right. I wasn't dead."

"No." Anderson stared up at Sherlock as he continued to pace. "No, and everything's okay now, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Sherlock said, which made Anderson laugh in relief. "Of course you've wasted police time, perverted the course of justice, risked distracting me from a massive terrorist assault that could have both destroyed Parliament _and_ caused the death of hundreds of people."

"Oh God," Anderson said tearfully. Suddenly, he burst into tears, grabbing Sherlock and pulling him close. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry." He continued to sob and Sherlock tentatively patted him on the shoulder. "Hang on," Anderson said, his tears stopping abruptly. "That doesn't make any sense."

Anderson climbed to his feet, walking to his wall of papers. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"How could you be sure John and Ellie would stand on that exact spot? I mean, what if they had moved? Hey – how did you do it all so quickly? What if the bike hadn't hit John? And anyway, why are you telling me all this? If you'd pulled that off, I'm the_ last_ person you'd tell the truth . . ."

Turning around, Anderson realised that Sherlock had left.

"Sherlock Holmes!" he said, laughing. "Sherlock!"

* * *

Elspeth sat in the corner with a drink in hand, drumming her fingers against the table as she waited. She briefly wondered who would arrive first.

A hand suddenly reached out from behind her, plucking the glass out of her hand. Elspeth scowled.

"Since when did you drink alcohol?" Sherlock asked, sitting in the booth next to her.

"Since I became a legal adult," Elspeth grumbled. She snatched the glass back. "There's Coke in it as well." Sherlock frowned doubtfully and Elspeth rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, I'm not turning into my mother. I just like a couple of drinks now and again."

"You shouldn't drink while taking antidepressants," Sherlock pointed out.

"It's generally not advised by most doctors, but since when have I paid attention to the rules?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He looked at Elspeth. She seemed reflective, like she was considering saying something but couldn't find the words, and he resisted the urge to ask her what thinking about. He knew that she would talk when she was ready.

"You couldn't have chosen a nicer pub, could you?" Mycroft complained as he sat next to Sherlock, who turned and glowered at Elspeth.

"Why is he here?"

"Because I invited him," Elspeth snapped back. "No, Mycroft, I couldn't have picked another pub. I like this pub. I'll get the drinks in, shall I?"

"You haven't finished yours," Mycroft pointed out. Elspeth picked up the glass, downed the rest of her drink in one go and then slammed the glass on the table. Raising an eyebrow at Mycroft, she slid out of the booth and strode across to the bar. "Still stubborn, I see."

Sherlock made a noise of agreement under his breath, watching Elspeth. She'd forgiven him the previous night, but he hadn't expected a text from her asking him to meet her. She stood at the bar, her legs crossed at the ankles, talking to the boy on the other side with a somewhat endearing shyness. From the way he grinned and leaned closer towards her as they talked, the boy behind the bar was clearly interested in Elspeth.

"She's an adult now, Sherlock," Mycroft said, interrupting his thoughts. "You can't expect her to stay at home forever."

"I know," Sherlock said irritably. "What are you implying anyway?"

"That whether we like it or not, one day Elspeth is going to leave."

"How do you know that?"

Mycroft gave Sherlock a condescending smile. "We were her age once, or can you not remember? You and I were more than eager to leave home."

"That doesn't mean Ellie will feel the same," Sherlock said. He glanced towards her, frowning when she and the boy behind the bar laughed in unison. Truthfully, he had never considered that Elspeth would someday leave home. He had assumed that she depended on him, centred her life around his because he was her father.

He couldn't imagine what would happen if Elspeth left. Not a lot, Sherlock supposed. She'd still text him and call him and nag him about the state of 221B. She would probably still pop round for tea with Mrs Hudson and dinner with him, when he ate. Elspeth wouldn't stay away from the crime scenes either, even if John did eventually stop attending them with him . . . but what if she didn't? What if Elspeth got on with her life, gradually needing Sherlock less and less?

The thought made Sherlock frown again. That would never happen. He was certain of it.

Turning around, Elspeth picked up the three glasses with some difficulty and returned to the table. Mycroft picked up his glass, sniffing his drink suspiciously.

"Stop being such a snob," Elspeth grumbled, sipping from her own drink with ease.

"It's hardly up to my usual standard here, I must admit," Mycroft said, his sharp eyes wandering over the worn out seats, dirty carpet and drunken patrons.

"Your standards are impossibly high to meet," Sherlock muttered.

"And yours aren't?"

"Oh my God, I brought you two here to have a serious conversation and you're bitching at each other?" Elspeth asked incredulously.

"Sorry, Elspeth, do continue," Mycroft replied with a sarcastic smile. Elspeth glowered back at him.

"Do you realise I haven't quite forgiven either of you yet?" Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but Elspeth held her hand up, stopping him. "Yes, I know I said that I forgave you on the train, but I thought we were going to be blown up by a big-ass bomb."

"You've always had such a way with words," Mycroft said softly.

"Mycroft, if you ever want a chance of me liking you again, I suggest you be quiet," Elspeth said irritably. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. "I forgive Molly completely, but obviously Dad managed to somehow flirt his way into making her agree with this ridiculous idea –"

"I did _not_ –" Sherlock cut himself off when Elspeth gave him a sharp look. It was Mycroft's turn to smirk then.

"You've distracted me now," she complained. "Where was I?"

"You were reprimanding your father on manipulating a woman into helping him by appealing to her infatuation with him," Mycroft reminded her.

"Nicely put, thank you. Yeah – I forgive Molly because obviously she has feelings for Dad, and that's a _really_ douchey thing to do, by the way, Dad. You're not allowed to manipulate Molly because she thinks you're hot, _especially _since she's engaged now. You have to promise not to do that anymore."

"I promise," Sherlock said in a low voice.

"Good. I don't blame Nan or Granddad either, because they're my grandparents and I love them unconditionally," Elspeth announced, trying not to laugh when Mycroft and Sherlock looked put out by her decision.

"That's hardly fair –" Mycroft began.

"Mycroft," Elspeth interrupted sharply. "I wrote this down and memorised it and everything, so could you two stop interrupting me please?"

When Mycroft and Sherlock remained silent, Elspeth sipped her drink again and tucked her hair behind her ear before continuing.

"Dad," Elspeth said. She looked up at him, her eyes pensive. "I've told you this countless times, but you did really, _really_ hurt me when I found out you faked your death – I never thought I'd say that to anyone," she admitted with a grimace. "Anyway. Yeah. You hurt me so much that I can't possibly even begin to try and describe it. After everything that's happened, though, I've come to the conclusion that life is probably too short to bear grudges. And I never really gave you the opportunity to apologise."

"I apologised last night, Ellie," Sherlock said dryly. Elspeth grinned wickedly. "I have apologised several times."

"I know, but I like hearing you say it."

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "Elspeth," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry for faking my death and for the pain I caused you. I realise now that while I was trying to protect you, the consequences outweigh the benefits of the plan."

"Alright, I forgive you," Elspeth said with a small smile, scrunching her nose up slightly. "Just . . . don't do that again, alright?"

"Alright."

"How touching," Mycroft said. "Can I leave now?"

"No, I've not started with you yet. You're just as bad as him –" Elspeth gestured towards Sherlock, who sat back and smiled smugly. Now Elspeth was finished telling him off, he couldn't help but enjoy watch her have a go at Mycroft. "– if not even worse."

"What have I done, then?" Mycroft asked with a heavy sigh.

"You covered for him. You let me think he was dead. You let me grieve. You sent me away to a live-in mental health ward. Thanks for visiting me, by the way," Elspeth added sarcastically, giving Mycroft a pointed look. "So yeah, basically you're as much to blame for this crap as much as Dad is."

Mycroft regarded his only niece for a few seconds, taking everything she had said to him in. Not for the first time, Elspeth had left him lost for words.

"Then please accept my most sincere apologies," Mycroft finally said. "It was never my intention to hurt you. I only did what I thought would be best for you."

"Alright. I forgive you," Elspeth said rather begrudgingly. "I'd really prefer it if you two stopped trying to do what's best for me though. Your ideas of protecting me are pretty crappy, if you don't mind me saying."

Sherlock half smiled, meeting Elspeth's eyes. She looked at him with her eyebrows raised slightly, her lips tilted into a secret smile that mirrored his. Neither of them noticed Mycroft's eyes dart between the two.

"Go on then," Elspeth said to Sherlock. "Ask me. I know you're dying to." She grinned widely at him. Sherlock rolled his eyes fondly.

"Will you move back into 221B?" he asked her. He didn't tell her, but it was quiet without Elspeth and John. Lonely. Sherlock was used to always having Elspeth there – singing along to the radio as she washed the dishes, sitting by the window while she painted, nagging him, making stupid comments. Sherlock missed her general presence in his life, and he knew that once John got married, he would see less of his friend.

Of course, Sherlock remembered life before Elspeth and John. He was alone a lot. He worked alone, he lived alone, and he spent most of his time on his own. There were those rare occasions when Sherlock interacted with other people, but they were usually clients or members of the police. Mycroft constantly bothered him on behalf of their parents – it was his duty as the oldest brother to look after Sherlock when they both left home – and Lestrade was somewhat of a friend, Sherlock supposed.

It wasn't the same though. Sherlock had never given much thought to human interaction; he didn't understand why people bothered with such trivial things as friends and family. Elspeth came into his life first, and she showed him the importance of family, then John followed, and Sherlock finally understood why people bothered making friends.

He didn't say any of this to Elspeth, who continued to grin as she sipped her drink and tilted her head to the side thoughtfully.

"Mmm," she said. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Don't sound too enthusiastic," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. Laughing, Elspeth finished her drink and jumped up from her seat.

"Come on," she said. "I've already packed my bags. Mycroft, you can give us a lift, right?" Without waiting for an answer, Elspeth continued walking towards the door, giving Mycroft and Sherlock no choice but to follow.

Sherlock silently dwelled on Mycroft's words – _one day Elspeth is going to leave_. He knew it would happen, but he hoped it wouldn't for a long time. Not yet.

Then Elspeth turned around and gave them both a bright grin, her eyes lit up with a happiness that Sherlock hadn't seen since he returned. "Come _on_," Elspeth repeated impatiently. "Jeez, you two are so slow."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, sighing. Elspeth's grin widened and, after a second, Sherlock grinned back.

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, KirstyLaura, Meg, GeorgyannWayson, Guest, Greeting'sAndSaltations, Adrillian1497, Ms Moonshoes Potter, bellechat, Starcrier, Aimee, EICochrane, ElizabethCullen08, iwanttobeaneverdeen, tardislover1, Nostalgic Beauty and Tayla for reviewing!

I did do my research, and there are certain antidepressants that you can drink alcohol with, but it is generally unadvisable to do so in excessive amounts.

And Elspeth's rant was very fun to write! I had a lot of fun imaging Mycroft and Sherlock being told off by a teenager . . . Ellie channelled her inner-Mummy Holmes; I loved the way she told Mycroft and Sherlock off in His Last Vow for smoking!


	7. Chapter 7

_**7.**_

It was good to be home. Elspeth smiled – _home_. Living with John and Mary was nice, but 221B, living with Sherlock, was even better. She'd only been back for a few hours but already her room was a mess, she and Sherlock had argued about the dishes and Mrs Hudson had pulled her in for several smothering hugs, cooing about how wonderful it was to have her back.

Hearing the front door bell ring, Elspeth straightened out her duvet cover and bounded back downstairs to the living room. Sherlock was waiting for her, several champagne glasses set out on the coffee table and a couple of bottles waiting in the fridge.

"Hi!" Mary cried happily, walking in with John close behind. She hugged Elspeth. "How are you settling in, then?"

"Alright, I guess," Elspeth said with a grin in Sherlock's direction. "Just like old times."

"Can't say I miss them," John joked, also grinning. He hugged Elspeth as well. He wouldn't ever tell her, but he was rather pleased that he and Mary had the place to themselves – "We're not even engaged, yet we already have a kid," Mary had joked the first month Elspeth lived with them.

Lestrade arrived shortly after John and Mary. He wrapped both his arms around Elspeth, kissing her cheek and laughing when she turned pink, trying to squirm away from him.

"You're so embarrassing," she grumbled.

"Aw, I'm just pleased to see you and your dad getting along again," Lestrade told her with a wide grin. "Come on, tell us how it happened."

John and Elspeth exchanged glances, grimacing. Sherlock smirked.

"Maybe not," Elspeth said with a wry grin. "I wouldn't want to embarrass Dad, he cried like a baby."

"Ooh I wish I was there," Mary said. "I would've like to see that."

Sherlock glowered at her across the room, pouring the champagne, and Mary smiled back at him. He hadn't said so, but Sherlock did actually quite like Mary. She wasn't like the other women that John had dated, and she'd taken care of Elspeth while he was away, so a strange sort of friendship had developed between the two.

"There's so many photographers outside," Elspeth said, peeling the curtain back a bit and peering out the window. She gave Sherlock an accusing glare over her shoulder. He smiled back. He couldn't resist a dramatic entrance.

Hearing his phone ring, Sherlock politely excused himself. He checked the caller ID and, judging by the triumphant smirk on his face, Elspeth guessed it was Mycroft.

While John and Mary gave their news about their upcoming wedding, Elspeth followed Sherlock into his bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed while he spoke to Mycroft. She could hear one of the songs from _Les Miserable_ playing. Sherlock pulled his jacket on.

"Sherlock, _please_. I _beg_ of you. You can take over at the interval," Mycroft said, his tone desperate. Elspeth got up from the bed and buttoned his jacket up for him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, brother dear, but you made a promise. There's nothing I can do to help," Sherlock said. He smiled at Elspeth again. She beamed up at him.

"But you don't understand the pain of it – the horror!"

Sherlock grinned as he ended the call, then turned to John.

"Come on," John said to both of them. "You'll have to go down. They want the story."

"In a minute," Sherlock promised. Elspeth fondly rolled her eyes, following John and Sherlock back through to the living room. Mary, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade had glasses of champagne in their hands.

"Oh, I'm really pleased, Mary," Mrs Hudson gushed. "Have you set a date?"

"Er, well we thought May."

"Oh! Spring wedding!"

Elspeth tried not to laugh; Mrs Hudson turned even more enthusiastic and tended to gush a lot when she had a couple of drinks. Mary smiled.

"Yeah. Well, once we've actually got engaged," she said, turning and giving Sherlock a pointed look while he poured more champagne. "We were interrupted last time." She said it playfully, not angrily, and Sherlock smiled up at her.

"Well, I can't wait," Lestrade told them, holding his glass up. John grinned at him and Elspeth picked up her jacket, shrugging it on over her shirt.

"You will be there, Sherlock?" Mary asked. Sherlock turned away from the window.

"Weddings – not really my thing," he said with a wink.

"That's a shame, you won't be able to see Ellie in her dress."

Elspeth looked up in surprise at the mention of her name, her eyes flickering between John and Mary suspiciously. "Wait, what?" she asked. Sherlock smiled to himself.

"I need bridesmaids, obviously," Mary said with a fond roll of her eyes. "I personally can't think of anyone better. Can you, John?"

"Nope," John said, a wide grin spreading across his face. Elspeth continued to look at them oddly.

"Are you being serious?" She looked at Sherlock. "Are they being serious?"

"Yes," Mary said, laughing. "Ellie, will you be a bridesmaid at our wedding?"

"Yeah!" Elspeth cried, beaming and flinging her arms around Mary. She hugged John as well, and John grinned at Sherlock over his shoulder. A second later, the living room door opened, Molly walking in with a man accompanying her. They were holding hands.

"Hello everyone," Molly said.

"Hey Molly."

"This is Tom." Molly reached out and took Tom's hand in her own, and Elspeth glanced towards him with disinterest. She looked at him again, her eyes widening as she stared at Tom incredulously, biting down on her bottom lip as she tried not to laugh. She met John's eyes, relieved to see he was just as surprised as she was. "Tom, this is everyone."

"Hi," Tom said shyly. He was tall and slender, with dark curly hair a bit shorter than Sherlock's, large pale blue eyes and high cheekbones. He even wore a long dark coat with the collar turned up and the scarf around his neck was tied in the same way Sherlock tied his. "It's really nice to meet you all," Tom continued pleasantly. He looked at John, noticing the other man staring at him. "Hi."

John grinned, looking him up and down, then finally pulled himself together. "Wow. Yeah, hi. I'm John." He and Tom shook hands. "Good to meet you."

"Tom, this is Ellie," Molly said, tugging on Tom's hand. Elspeth quickly composed herself, trying not to laugh when she and Tom shook hands.

"Hi," she said with a small smile. "It's really nice to meet you.

"You too, I've heard a lot about you," Tom said with a pleasant smile. When he turned away, Elspeth bit down on her bottom lip, her cheeks turning pink from trying not to laugh – she liked Molly a lot, she really did, but this was just too funny. She looked across at Sherlock, who turned away from the window.

"Ready?" he asked her and John.

"Ready," John replied. Tom turned around when he heard Sherlock's voice, ready to greet him. Sherlock smiled at Lestrade briefly as he passed, then caught sight of Molly's fiancée for the first time. Sherlock stopped. His eyes widened. Tom stared back at him, equally as wide eyed, while Sherlock gave him the once-over from the feet upwards. Neither of them spoke for a second.

Sensing the awkwardness between the two men, Lestrade walked over. "Champagne?" he asked Tom and Molly.

Sherlock's jaw dropped slightly, his eyes flickering to John, then Elspeth. Both of them grinned back expectantly, Elspeth looking like she might burst if she didn't laugh soon.

Finally, Sherlock held his hand out towards Tom. They shook hands.

"Nice to meet you," Tom said, his voice hoarse with shock. Sherlock nodded, knowing that if he spoke, he would say something everyone would regret. He glanced towards Molly, their eyes meeting for a second – Molly felt that odd feeling in her stomach again; why didn't Tom ever make her feel the way Sherlock did? – before walking between the couple, leaving the living room.

"Excuse me," Elspeth mumbled, ducking out of the room after Sherlock and shutting the living room door behind her. John started to follow, stopping briefly to take another look at Tom.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't take in the similarities. Shaking his head John headed out of the room.

"So, um, is it serious, you two?" Lestrade asked Molly quietly.

"Yeah! I've moved on!" she insisted, smiling up at him. Lestrade frowned doubtfully and glanced towards Tom, who was chatting to Mary and Mrs Hudson.

Outside, on the landing, Sherlock looped his scarf around his neck and Elspeth buried her face into his arm, shaking with silent laughter. John grinned at her.

"Did you, er . . .?" he asked quietly, gesturing towards the door.

"I'm not saying a word," Sherlock replied.

"No, best not."

Elspeth finally composed herself, standing up straight and smothering her giggles. Sherlock looked down at the way he had tied his scarf, then threw his hands up in exasperation – he had tied it the same way Tom had. Elspeth snorted with laughter again.

"I'm still waiting," John told Sherlock. "Why did they try and kill us? If they knew you were on to them, why go after us – put Ellie and me in the bonfire?"

Sherlock picked up his coat. "I don't know. I don't _like_ not knowing." He turned and trotted down the stairs, quickly followed by John and Elspeth. "Unlike the nicely embellished fictions on your blog, John, real life is rarely so neat." He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and so did John, but Elspeth stopped a couple of steps from the landing. "I don't know who was behind all this, but I _will_ find out, I promise you."

"You're enjoying this," Elspeth accused with a smile. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her. "Being back – being a _hero."_

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock scoffed, his lips twitching into the slightest of smiles.

"You'd have to be an idiot not to see it. You _love_ it," John said.

"Love what?"

Elspeth grinned, leaning against the banister. "Being Sherlock Holmes," she teased. "You love it."

"I don't even know what that's supposed to mean," Sherlock said, turning away and pulling on his gloves.

"Sherlock, you are going tell us how you did it? _How _you jumped off that building and survived?" John asked, his eyes fixed closely on his friend. Sherlock was walking towards the door, stopping but not turning around when John spoke. Elspeth tilted her head to the side. She waited.

"You know my methods, John. I am known to be indestructible."

"You were dead," Elspeth said softly, her voice barely audible over the din on the over side of the door. "I went to your grave."

"I should hope so," Sherlock said dryly.

"I spoke to you."

"You both did – I was there."

"I asked you to stop being dead," Elspeth whispered, her hand curling around the banister. John looked at her over his shoulder in surprise and Sherlock froze, his breath hitching slightly.

"I heard you," he said quietly. He slowly turned around to face her, their eyes meeting for a second, and Elspeth bit her lip as she involuntarily remembered the past two years. She looked at Sherlock, taking in his features, imprinting his face in her mind. She had missed him so much. "Anyway," he said, breaking the silence. "Time to go and be Sherlock Holmes."

He turned towards the door and John followed him. Elspeth bounded down the steps, looking towards the coat rack on the wall.

"Hey Dad," she called, grinning. "You forgot something." She threw something to Sherlock and he caught it; it was the deerstalker. Sherlock smiled back at Elspeth, gazing at the hat for a few seconds before pulling it on and tugging it into position. John smiled at the sight, remembering how exasperated Sherlock had been when the hat was first presented to him, and Elspeth beamed.

"Now you're ready," she told him. Sherlock opened the front door and stepped outside, the reporters gathering around him immediately, and John was quick to follow. Taking in a deep breath, Elspeth walked outside, listening to the questions being shouted and trying not to flinch away from the rapid photos being taken, and shut the door behind her, stepping to Sherlock's side. He smiled at her again. After a second, Elspeth smiled back.

* * *

"Remind me why we're doing this," Sherlock muttered.

"Because they're family and we love them very much," Elspeth replied, then grimaced. "Well, Mycroft not so much, but Nan and Granddad we love very much."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her, leaning further back in his seat like he wanted to disappear into it. He looked out of the window, then glanced at Elspeth. "You look nice," he told her.

Elspeth beamed at him. "Thanks." She played with the hem of her dress, smoothing it down and tugging it so it reached her knees – it was a pretty floral dress, one that Sherlock hadn't seen before. Or maybe he'd never paid enough attention to Elspeth to notice her clothes. "I got it last year," Elspeth elaborated. "For my birthday. It was a present from Mary."

"Oh," Sherlock said. He'd never bought Elspeth clothes, he usually just gave her money and let her choose her own. The last time he'd bought her clothes was when she was ten. "You look nice," he repeated lamely. "You're wearing your hair down."

Elspeth usually tied her hair up when she went out. "Yeah, I, uh, I stopped doing that," she mumbled, Moriarty's voice echoing in her mind – _"You look nicer with your hair up. You should wear it like that more often._"

Neither of them spoke for the remainder of the journey, but Sherlock did make a low groaning noise escape his lips when the taxi pulled up outside the restaurant. Elspeth gave him a sympathetic look.

"Come on," she said with a smile. "It's only one night. You know you love them really."

"Debatable," Sherlock said dryly. He smiled at her though, following her into the restaurant. Sherlock gave their name and the waiter showed them to the table, which was right in the centre of the room. There was no doubt that Mycroft had chosen it in a pitiful attempt to make sure that Sherlock and Elspeth behaved.

"Sherlock!" Wanda said happily, standing up and embracing her youngest son, ignoring the grimace Sherlock wore. "Have you brushed your hair?" she fussed, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair. Scowling, Sherlock batted her hand away.

"Good to see you again, son," Timothy said. "And Ellie, you look beautiful!"

"Hi Granddad," Elspeth said with a grin, which widened when Timothy wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight bear hug. She hugged Wanda as well, ducking under Mycroft when he went to hug her – Sherlock smirked at that, taking a seat next to her. "How was the show, then?" "Wonderful, it was wonderful, wasn't it, dear?"

"Wonderful," Timothy agreed, echoing his wife.

"Did you enjoy it, Mycroft?" Elspeth asked, peeking at him over her menu and biting down on her bottom lip as she tried not to laugh. Mycroft's responding smile was sarcastic and insincere.

"I've never been to anything quite like it," he said stiffly.

"You would've loved it, Ellie, we'll have to take you sometime, won't we, Timothy?" Wanda gushed. She placed her hand on her husband's arm when she said his name, gaining his attention. He smiled.

"Next time we're here, maybe," he agreed.

"That would be great." A wicked grin spread across Elspeth's voice. "We could all go, a family trip to the theatre!"

The looks she received from Mycroft and Sherlock were utterly murderous, and Elspeth simply smiled back at them as Wanda cried out in agreement, promising to book tickets as soon as she could. She may have forgiven Mycroft and Sherlock for lying to her, but Elspeth still intended to make them pay for it.

"We heard about that bomb, young man," Wanda scolded. "You two –" she pointed accusingly at Mycroft and Sherlock. "– should be ashamed of yourselves."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I prevented a terrorist attack, saved hundreds of lives and stopped Parliament from being destroyed," he told her. "If anything, I think I should be proud of myself."

Elspeth snorted loudly. "Modest, as ever."

"Don't snort like that, Elspeth, it's very unbecoming," Mycroft sneered. Elspeth pulled a face at him – she scrunched her nose up, pursed her lips together and pressed her tongue against them so her mouth bulged out in a rather unattractive manner. It was a very immature response, she knew, but it made Sherlock laugh.

"You put my only grandchild in danger!" Wanda told him unhappily, then turned to Mycroft. "And why haven't you got any children yet, Mikey?"

"Because his face is very unbecoming," Elspeth muttered, making her and Sherlock laugh.

"Mycroft isn't interested in purchasing a goldfish," Sherlock said. Elspeth laughed even harder; he had filled her in on their conversation earlier that day. Mycroft glared at them both across the table and Wanda looked at the three of them in confusion.

"Goldfish?" she repeated. "Sherlock, we're talking about children. Are you feeling alright?"

"They're teasing you, love," Timothy said gently, covering his wife's hand with his own and squeezing. While Wanda sometimes became baffled by her sons and granddaughter, Timothy sat back and observed, listening to their banter. When Mycroft and Sherlock were young, and argued at least twice a day, Timothy Holmes was the one to talk to each boy individually because he was so calm and unbiased. Wanda was far stricter with her boys.

"I don't have any immediate plans to have children," Mycroft told his mother calmly.

"Well why not? You're a very handsome man, Mikey, there must be _some_ women who realise this. What about that pretty assistant of yours, what's her name, dear?" Wanda asked Timothy.

"Anthea."

"Anthea," Wanda repeated. "What about her?"

"I don't think she's really Mycroft's type," Sherlock said softly. Elspeth nearly fell off her chair because she was laughing so much, leaning against her father as she giggled helplessly.

"Our relationship is strictly business."

"Never mind that, tell the girl she's welcome to join us at any time," Timothy said with a sly wink in Mycroft's direction. Mycroft forced himself to smile back. Elspeth's cheeks were bright red when she finally collected herself, sipping her water while stray giggles escaped her lips. Sherlock smiled at her.

The dinner was as normal as it could be for the Holmes family. Mycroft and Sherlock made snide remarks about each other throughout with the occasional interjection from Elspeth, whose comments were more childish than hurtful. The brothers took it in turns to make deductions about their waiter, much to the annoyance of Wanda – "No games at the table," she scolded – and Elspeth practised her ability as well. Wanda and Timothy engaged in idle chitchat that Elspeth made an effort to join in with, but she got so bored that she started switching the plates around when no one was looking.

It was only when Sherlock made the deduction that their waiter was having an affair with the male chef despite being married to one the women behind the bar that Wanda quickly ushered her family out, apologising on their behalf.

"That wasn't half as bad as I expected it to be," Elspeth remarked, pulling her coat on. She, Sherlock and Mycroft were waiting outside while Wanda and Timothy paid for their meals. "It was kind of fun, actually."

"You have a very strange definition of fun," Sherlock told her. Elspeth beamed up at him.

"I can't say I'm surprised," Wanda admitted, walking out with her husband in tow. "You'll have to come up and see us soon, all of you. Christmas, maybe?"

Sherlock made an unenthusiastic noise of agreement under his breath, grimacing when his mother suddenly pulled him in for an embrace that he tolerated. He only pulled away when she kissed his cheek. She did the same for Mycroft, who made the effort of hugging her back, and then Elspeth, the only one who happily accepted the hug.

"Come on," Elspeth said to Sherlock, smiling up at him as she raised her hand, trying to hail a cab. "Let's go home."

* * *

Thank you aorangeinboston, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, WerewolfHyrbid31, Ms Moonshoes Potter, Georgyann Wayson, Adrillian1497, Starcrier, KirstyLaura, Aimee, Bookworm45669, Destiny Xavier16, fmxc17, lauren6498, Tayla, Meg, Guest, tardislover1, iwanttobeaneverdeen, bellechat, quidditchandsonicscrewdrivers and dustdancingintheflickerlight for reviewing!

Obviously the Holmes boys have no taste; I saw Les Mis on stage at Christmas, and it was truly amazing. I saw Mamma Mia! in London today on stage as well (I go to a lot of musicals, my Mum and I love the theatre) and it is a definite must-see. I was dancing in my seat the whole way through.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Writing the disastrous Holmes family dinner was exceedingly good fun to write!


	8. Chapter 8

_**8.**_

**HELP. **

**BAKER STREET. **

**NOW.**

**HELP ME.**

**PLEASE.**

Lestrade stared at the texts for a second, colour draining from his face. He'd spent months, _months_, chasing after the gang and now they'd finally caught them – _in the act_ – when he realised he had a string of text messages on his phone. Dread filled him as he imagined various scenarios. Sherlock and Elspeth were in danger, he was certain of it.

"I – I have to go," he told Sally, who stared back at him incredulously. "_You _make the arrest." Sally started to protest but Lestrade spoke over her. "Sorry. You'll be fine. I'm – I'm – I'm cool with this," he insisted, wishing she would just let him go so he could make sure Sherlock was ok.

"Jones'll get all the credit if you leave now! You_ know_ he will!" Sally told him. Lestrade hesitated. This was his big chance, an opportunity of unforgettable success . . .

"Yeah, but . . ." his voice trailed away. Lestrade shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I have to go." Ignoring the dubious look Sally gave him, he turned and strode away, running for his car. He called for maximum back up and jumped into the front seat, using his privilege as a detective inspector to speed through the streets of London. His heart raced. He had to get to Sherlock and Elspeth, he had to make sure they were safe. Sherlock never asked for help, which was why Lestrade was so frantic.

Once he reached 221B, Lestrade tore his keys from the ignition and raced inside, hurtling up the stairs. "What's going on?" he asked breathlessly, looking around. Sherlock sat at the dining table with his laptop in front of him. "Sherlock, where's Ellie?"

"I'm here," Elspeth said, walking out of the kitchen with a mug in her hand. She was fine. Lestrade's eyes flickered to Sherlock.

"This is hard," he said.

"What?"

"Really hard. The hardest thing I've ever had to do." Sherlock picked up a book, holding it up to show to Lestrade – _How to write an unforgettable best man speech_. "Have you any funny stories about John?"

Lestrade stared back at him in disbelief. "_What_?!"

"I need anecdotes," Sherlock said, putting the book down and looking up at him. It was only then he noticed Lestrade's expression. "Didn't go to any trouble, did you?"

Elspeth looked at Lestrade as well, leaning against the kitchen doorway and frowning back at him when he stared at her incredulously. Outside, an ambulance siren made its way up the road, and the whirl of a helicopter approached the building. As it hovered lower, the curtains in the open window began to billow inwards.

Sherlock's eyes met Elspeth's across the room. He raised an eyebrow. She shrugged back. Lestrade shut his eyes in exasperation.

* * *

Mrs Hudson loved to hear Sherlock playing his violin. She stopped outside the living room door and listened to the gentle waltz for a few seconds before opening the door. Sherlock wasn't playing the violin, as she believed, but rather waltzing across the living room on his own, holding an imaginary partner. He'd been practising with Elspeth for the past couple of weeks but she wasn't there. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Shut up, Mrs Hudson."

"I haven't said a word!" she protested. Sherlock sighed, continuing to waltz.

"You're formulating a question. It's physically painful watching you thinking," he said, then abruptly stopped dancing.

"I thought it was you playing."

"It _was_ me playing." Sherlock picked up a remote control, switched off the IPod dock – Elspeth had generously (_reluctantly_) lent him her IPod – and made a notation on the music sheet lying on the table. "I am composing."

"You were _dancing_," Mrs Hudson replied, carrying her tray through the living room and putting it on the table next to John's chair.

"I was road testing," Sherlock said tartly. He threw his pen down and turned to her. "Why are you here?"

"I'm bringing you your morning tea. You're not usually awake."

Sherlock sat down. "You bring me tea in the morning?"

"Well, where do you _think _it came from?"

"I don't know. At first I suspected Ellie but she never makes tea unless it's for herself. I just thought it sort of _happened._"

"Your mother has a lot to answer for," Mrs Hudson told him, carrying his cup and saucer to him before sitting in John's chair.

"I know. I have a list. Mycroft has a _file._"

"So," Mrs Hudson said excitedly. "It's the big day, then!"

"_What_ big day?"

"The wedding! John and Mary getting married!"

"Two people who currently live together are about to attend church, have a party, go on a short holiday and then carry on living together. What's big about that?" Sherlock asked dryly. He really didn't understand marriage.

"It changes people, marriage."

Sherlock scrunched his nose up. "Mm, no it doesn't," he said.

"Well, you wouldn't understand because you always live alone," Mrs Hudson said, and when Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, she hastily added, "With a _women_, Sherlock – Ellie's your _daughter_. It's completely different."

"Your husband was executed for double murder. You're hardly an advert for companionship." Sherlock sipped his tea.

"Marriage changes you as a person, in ways that you can't imagine."

He smiled pointedly at her. "As does lethal injection."

Mrs Hudson ignored him. She was used to Sherlock's snide remarks. "My best friend, Margaret – she was my chief bridesmaid," she said, not noticing Sherlock roll his eyes. "We were going to be best friends forever, we always said that, but I hardly saw her after that."

"Aren't there usually biscuits?" Sherlock asked, standing up abruptly.

"I've run out."

"Have the shops?"

"She cried the whole day, saying, 'Ooh, it's the end of an era,'" Mrs Hudson continued with her story, oblivious to Sherlock opening the living room door again and gesturing towards the stairs.

"I'm sure the shop on the corner is open," he said.

"She was probably right, really," Mrs Hudson said with a sigh. Sherlock grimaced. "I remember she left early. I mean, who leaves a wedding early? So sad."

"Mm. Anyway, you've got things to do."

"No, not really. I've got plenty of time to –"

"_Biscuits_," Sherlock interrupted sternly. Mrs Hudson tutted.

"I really am going to have a word with your mother," she threatened, walking towards the door. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You can if you like. She understands very little," he said, then closed the living room door on her, relieved that she was gone. Sherlock loved and cared for Mrs Hudson very much, but he had no patience for her incessant chatter sometimes. Sighing, Sherlock looked towards John's chair, then at the sofa where Elspeth would usually be curled up.

Walking through the kitchen and down the hallway, Sherlock gazed at the suit hanging up in front of his wardrobe. "Right then," he said to himself, taking his dressing gown off. "Into battle."

* * *

The ceremony was long and rather boring. To begin with, Sherlock stood at the front of the Church by the alter with a rather nervous John, quietly assuring his friend that nothing would go wrong and he wouldn't mess up his vows. Mary looked rather pretty, he supposed, in her wedding dress and veil; John could barely take his eyes off her when she walked down the aisle, grinning from ear to ear.

Elspeth looked nice as well, Sherlock thought, in the sleeveless bridesmaid dress that reached her knees. Her hair had been carefully styled and she carried a small bouquet, similar to Mary's, in her hands. She ruined the image by sticking her tongue out at Sherlock when she saw him.

Words were spoken, hymns were sung and John and Mary grinned at each other when they were officially declared man and wife. They led the wedding procession back down the aisle, and though the maid of honour – Janine, John had told Sherlock her name was – should've walked alongside Sherlock, Elspeth darted forwards and looped her arms through his.

"That wasn't so bad," she said. "You look nice, by the way. Very smart."

"Thank you. You look nice as well."

"Aw, you say the nicest things," Elspeth teased, bumping her shoulder against him.

"Congratulations!" the photographer cried when John and Mary walked out of the Church. "Ok, hold it there – I want to get a shot of the newlyweds"

John and Mary stopped, Elspeth and Janine stepping to the side so the photographer could get his shot. Sherlock stepped to Mary's side.

"Er, just the bride and groom, please," the photographer told him. Sherlock didn't move. John looked at him pointedly and, rolling her eyes, Elspeth left Janine's side to drag her father from the shot. "Ok, three, two, one – _cheese!_"

The photographer moved about the guests, taking photos, and when he moved on from Janine and Sherlock, she turned to him.

"The famous Mr Holmes! I'm very pleased to meet you," she told him, then grinned deviously. "But no sex, ok?"

"Sorry?" Sherlock asked, startled. For some reason, Janine started to laugh.

"You don't have to look so scared. I'm only messing. Bridesmaid, best man . . ." her voice trailed off and she shrugged slightly. "It's a bit traditional." Janine gently punched Sherlock on the arm. He looked down at her with distaste.

"Is it?"

Janine's grin dropped, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "But not obligatory," she said awkwardly.

"If that's the sort of thing you're looking for the man over there in blue –" Sherlock jerked his head towards one of the guests. "– is your best bet. Recently divorced doctor with a ginger cat, a barn conversion, and a history of erectile dysfunction." Janine raised her eyebrows at Sherlock, trying not to grin, and he blinked. "Reviewing that information, possibly not your best bet."

"Yeah, maybe not."

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly, feeling puzzled. "Sorry – there was one more deduction there than I was expecting," he said. Janine smiled up at him.

"Mr Holmes," she purred, taking his arm. "You're going to be incredibly useful."

"Hey Dad, we're moving onto the reception now," Elspeth said, appearing by Sherlock's other side and tugging on his arm with a quick smile in Janine's direction. It didn't take long to get to the reception, and when they did, John and Mary stood outside the venue so they could greet each of their guests. Sherlock and Elspeth joined them.

"David!" Mary said suddenly, looking at the man wearing a bright purple tie with delight. She reached out, ready to hug him, but David leaned away and briefly clasped her arms.

"Mary. Congratulations. You look – um . . . very nice," he said nervously, his eyes darting towards Sherlock. When Mary introduced them, David mumbled, "Um, yeah. We've, um, we've – we've met before." Sherlock had given David a stern lecture about his interest in Mary a few weeks before the wedding, downgrading his relationship with her to a 'casual acquaintance'.

With an anxious noise, David waved, not quite meeting Mary's eyes, and ducked inside. Elspeth looked up at Sherlock and raised her eyebrows, a small smirk playing on her lips. When David was gone, Archie, the pageboy, raised forwards and flung his arms around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock looked at him awkwardly.

"Mm, yes, um – well done in the service, Archie," he said. Archie's mother smiled.

"He's really come out of his shell. I don't know _how_ you did it," she said, much to Elspeth's amusement. "He said you had some pictures for him, as a treat."

"Er, yes." Sherlock patted Archie's head. "If he's good."

"Beheadings," Archie told his mother.

"Lovely little village," Sherlock said quickly, unwrapping Archie's arms from around him and gently pushing him towards Elspeth, who Archie had a rather apparent crush on. Immediately, Elspeth crouched down to his level, beaming at him.

"Well done, little man," she said, playfully tweaking his nose. "You look very handsome in your outfit."

Archie's cheeks turned pink as he grinned back at her. "Thank you," he said, ducking his chin shyly. "You look really pretty."

"Aw, thank you," Elspeth said with a smile. Archie's mother smiled back at her and led her son away, and Elspeth stood up. Sherlock stared at her. "What? He's a sweet kid."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, following John and Mary into the reception venue. The photographer walked about, taking photos of the various couples – Tom and Molly, Mrs Hudson and Mr Chatterjee from the sandwich shop, who had reluctantly agreed to attend the wedding with her, Lestrade and his pint. John and Mary barely left each other's sides, and Mary snagged a couple of canapés, complaining about how hungry she felt.

"Oh, Ellie," Mary said, catching Elspeth's attention when she walked past. "Come with me, there's someone you need to meet." Grinning at John, Mary grabbed Elspeth's hand and pulled her aside, towards the young man standing not too far off. "Todd, this is Ellie. Ellie, this is Todd."

"Hi," Todd said with a wide smile. Elspeth smiled back, her eyes raking over Todd's features. He was very nice looking, she decided.

"Hi."

"I'll leave you to it," Mary said, squeezing Elspeth's hand encouragingly and grinning at them both before returning to John's side.

"_He's_ nice," Janine said, looking admiringly at one of the waiters as he passed. She and Sherlock were standing not too far from John and Mary, and he sniffed deeply.

"Traces of _two_ leading brands of deodorant, both advertised for their strength, suggestive of a chronic body odour problem manifesting under stress," Sherlock told her. Janine sighed, asking about another waiter. Sherlock followed her line of sight and watched another waiter carefully pull a skewer from a joint of roast beef. "Long-term relationship, compulsive cheat."

"Seriously?"

"Waterproof cover on his smartphone. Yet his complexion doesn't indicate outdoor work. Suggests he's in the habit of taking his phone into the shower with him, which means he often receives texts and emails he'd rather went unseen.

Janine looked at Sherlock admiringly. "Can I keep you?" she asked, her tone light.

"Do you like solving crimes?"

She grinned back at him. "Do you have a vacancy?"

Sherlock looked at her for a few seconds, his eyes then sliding towards John. He was standing with Mary, their heads close together as they spoke, and Sherlock looked away again, his eyes seeking out Elspeth. She was standing a window with Todd, her shoulders hunched slightly as she spoke, grinning up at him. He was smiling back, subconsciously mimicking her actions – he was obviously attracted to her.

"Oh, God, wow!" John said suddenly, looking towards the entrance with wide eyes. "He came!" Smiling widely, John pulled away from Mary and crossed the room, saluting a heavily scarred man in a military uniform. Sherlock walked over to Mary, and Elspeth politely excused herself from Todd so she could join them.

"So that's him," Sherlock said dryly. "Major Sholto." He narrowed his eyes. "If they're such good friends, why does he barely even mention him?"

"He mentions him all the time to me. He never shuts up about him," Mary said. Elspeth nodded in agreement, remembering how much John had spoken about Sholto when she was living with them.

"About _him_?" Sherlock asked incredulously. Mary nodded, took a sip of her wine and grimaced at the taste.

"Ugh, I chose this wine. It's bloody awful," she complained. Elspeth offered to try it, reaching for the glass, but Sherlock batted her hand away and reminded her that she wasn't allowed to drink. She glowered at him.

"Yes, but it's definitely _him_ that he talks about?" he asked Mary, who made a noise of agreement. "I've never even heard him say his name."

"Well, he's almost a recluse – you know, since . . ." Mary's voice trailed off, and Sherlock nodded. "I didn't think he'd show up at all. John says he's the most unsociable man he's ever met."

"_He _is? _He's _the most unsociable?" Sherlock asked, his tone making Elspeth grin up at him. He was getting jealous, she could tell. "Ah, _that's_ why he's bouncing round him like a puppy."

"Dad," Elspeth said, laughing. Mary laughed as well, hugging Sherlock's arm.

"Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know."

Sherlock looked down at her. "Stop smiling."

"It's my wedding day!" Mary said, pretending to be offended. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock pulled free from her and walked away. "Ooh, what got his knickers in a twist?"

"Just ignore him, he's being stroppy," Elspeth said. "Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to Todd!"

While Elspeth chatted to Todd and Mary mingled with the guests, Sherlock walked away, taking his phone out of his pocket. After a few rings, Mycroft answered.

"Yes, what, Sherlock?" he asked breathlessly.

"Why are you out of breath?"

"Filing." _Lying_.

"Either I've caught you in a compromising position or you've been working out again. I favour the latter," Sherlock said.

"What do you want?"

"I need your answer, Mycroft, as a matter of urgency," Sherlock told him. "Even at the eleventh hour it's not too late, you know." On the other end of the phone, Mycroft sighed. "Cars can be ordered, private jets commandeered."

"Today. It's today, isn't it? No, Sherlock, I will not be coming to the 'night do', as you so poetically put it."

"What a shame," Sherlock said insincerely. "Mary and John will be extremely d –"

"Delighted not to have me hanging around," Mycroft finished for him.

"Oh, I don't know. There should always be a spectre at the feast."

"So, this is it, then. The big day. I suppose I'll be seeing a lot more of you from now on."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock demanded, frowning. He glanced over his shoulder at Elspeth, watching her talk animatedly with Todd for a few seconds. Mycroft continued to tease him, refusing to tell him what he meant.

"Well, it's the end of an era, isn't it? John and Mary – domestic bliss," he said vaguely. Sherlock knew his brother was smirking.

"No, no, no – I prefer to think of it as the beginning of a new chapter," Sherlock said. Mycroft was silent. "I know that silence. _What_?"

"Well, I'd better let you get back to it. You have a big speech, or something, don't you? Cake, karaoke, _mingling_ . . ."

"Mycroft!"

"This is what people do, Sherlock – they get married. I warned you, don't get involved," Mycroft said sternly.

"Involved?" Sherlock repeated. "I'm not involved." Mycroft made a noise of disbelief. "John asked me to be his best man. How could I say no? I'm not involved!"

"I believe you! Really, I do!" Mycroft replied, his tone insincere and patronising. Sherlock gritted his teeth. Mycroft used to use that tone of voice when they were children, when he thought Sherlock had said something particularly stupid or wrong. "Have a lovely day, and do give the happy couple my best."

"I will," Sherlock muttered. He lowered the phone, about to switch it off, when Mycroft spoke again.

"Oh, by the way, Sherlock – do you remember Redbeard?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. Hatred for Mycroft surged through him at the mention of Redbeard. "I'm not a child any more, Mycroft," he said stiffly.

"No, of course you're not," Mycroft replied. "Enjoy not getting involved, Sherlock."

* * *

Thank you GeorgyannWayson, quidditchandsonicscrewdrivers, katniss12, EICochrane, Destiny Xavier16, KirstyLaura, Meg, Ms Moonshoes Potter, tardislover1, SJBHasADayPass, fmxc17, ElizabethCullen08, Starcrier, Adrillian1497, bellechat, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Daisyxtaytay, Tayla, Bookworm45669, iwanttobeaneverdeen, Darcy, Nostalgic Beauty, LoverofWords22 and Aimee for reviewing!

The next few chapters are going to be hard to write as there are quite a few flashbacks, but I will persevere I promise! There probably won't be as many flashbacks as there are in the show, but I will include the stag night!


	9. Chapter 9

_**9.**_

There had been much speculation on Sherlock being John's best man, and many worries about his speech. The guests chattered as they ate and drank champagne, and Elspeth sat on Sherlock's left, giving him a small smile when he glanced at her worryingly. He wouldn't tell anyone, but he was dreading the speech – he didn't need to tell Elspeth for her to know.

When Sherlock's speech was announced, he rose to his feet, buttoned his jacket, and looked around uncomfortably.

"Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends . . . and . . . erm . . . others," Sherlock said. His voice trembled slightly. He stopped and blinked, his mind going blank. An awkward silence followed. "Er . . . w . . ." John looked at Sherlock, his eyes narrowed. "A – a – also . . ." Sherlock stammered. Mrs Hudson looked nervous and Lestrade leaned back in his seat, his brow furrowing with concern.

"Dad," Elspeth hissed. "_Telegrams_."

That was all Sherlock needed to jolt out of his blank state of mind. "Right, um . . ." he patted his pockets, then realised that the telegrams were on the table in front of him. "First things first," Sherlock announced. "Telegrams." He picked the cards up, quickly showing them to the guests. "Well, they're not actually telegrams. We just call them telegrams. I don't know why. Wedding tradition, because we don't have enough of that already, apparently," he added sarcastically.

John narrowed his eyes again, frowning up at Sherlock. Elspeth ducked her head, trying not to laugh.

"To Mr and Mrs Watson," Sherlock read. "All good wishes for your special day. With love and many big –" he broke off, rereading the sentence to himself before repeating it slowly. "big squishy cuddles, from Stella and Ted."

Looking up, Sherlock blinked rapidly. Lestrade sniggered, vowing to remember Sherlock uttering those words for the rest of his life, and Molly giggled. Sherlock glanced towards Elspeth in confusion. She grinned back.

"Mary, lots of love," Sherlock read from the second card, his nose scrunching up slightly with distaste. "_poppet_ –" he said it with such despair that John and Mary giggled. "Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from CAM. Wish your family could have seen this."

Mary's smile faded slightly. John glanced at her, frowned, and reached out to squeeze her hand. She smiled back at him.

Sherlock looked at the next card. "Um – special day –" he dropped that card, picking up another. "– very special day –" he threw that one down as well, working rapidly through them. "– love – love – love – love – lo – bit of a theme, you get the gist. People are basically _fond_."

Several people laughed. Sherlock put the cards down, pushing them to the side.

"John Watson," he said. "My friend, John Watson. John." Sherlock gazed at John, and John looked up at him, smiling. "When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused. I confess at first I didn't realise he was asking me. When finally I understood, I expressed to him that I was both flattered and . . . surprised.

"I explained to him that I'd never expected this request and I was a little daunted in the face of it. I nonetheless promised that I would do my very best to accomplish a task which was – for me – as demanding and difficult as any I had ever contemplated. Additionally, I thanked him for the trust he'd placed in me and indicated that I was, in some ways, very close to being . . . moved by it."

John frowned, trying to recall the conversation, and looked down the table at Elspeth. She shook her head slightly, shrugging.

"It later transpired that I had said_ none_ of this out loud," Sherlock concluded, making everyone laugh again. Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock took out his cue cards and shuffled through them. "Done that . . . Done that . . . Done that bit . . . Done that bit . . . Done that bit . . ."

He put the cue cards down, then looked at John again.

"I'm afraid, John," Sherlock said. "I can't congratulate you." John looked at him in surprise. "All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world."

Some of the guests began to look around at each other uncomfortably, shifting in their seats and murmuring quietly to each other. Lestrade and Molly exchanged looks of horror. Elspeth glanced at Sherlock, her forehead creased slightly as she frowned at him.

"Today we honour the death-watch beetle that is the doom of our society and, in time – one feels certain – our entire species," Sherlock continued, oblivious to the stares. "But anyway, let's talk about John."

"Please," John said with quiet despair. Mary squeezed his hand.

"If I burden myself with a little help-mate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice – it is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me," Sherlock said. Lestrade laughed. "Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes, in truth, from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides."

Sighing heavily, John shut his eyes for a brief moment. Mary frowned at Sherlock. Elspeth sunk back in her seat slightly.

"It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favour exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is a certain analogy there, I feel."

Pursing her lips together, Elspeth slowly turned her head and glared at Sherlock furiously. She felt embarrassed that Sherlock had insulted her in front of so many people, and furious that he had done the same to Janine, who stared up at him with a mixture of confusion and hurt in her eyes.

"And contrast is, after all, God's own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation," Sherlock continued. "Or it _would_ be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot."

Mary put her hand on her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut, and John was half hidden behind his clasped hands while Elspeth continued to glower at her father. The vicar looked at Sherlock grimly. The guests muttered amongst themselves.

"The point I'm_ trying_ to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet," Sherlock said. He looked at the vicar. "I am dismissive of the virtuous –" he turned to Elspeth, reaching out to gently touch her cheek. "– unaware of the beautiful –" Sherlock smiled down at her, then looked at John and Mary. "– and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend."

The guests fell silent, gazing at Sherlock. Elspeth's expression softened. She smiled up at him.

"Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing," Sherlock said. Mary smiled proudly at John, looping her arm through his and leaning her head on his shoulder. "John, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But, as I'm apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion." Sherlock paused, then smiled. "Actually, now I _can_."

The guests murmured again, but Elspeth was pleased to hear that their tone was more approving. John and Mary smiled at each other.

"Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss - so sorry again about that last one - so know this, today you sit between the woman you have made your wife, the man you helped save, and the girl you were there in her darkest hour – in short, the three people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that," Sherlock concluded.

Mrs Hudson whimpered, holding a tissue to her nose – she was always a sentimental woman. But Sherlock was surprised to see Molly and other guests sniffling, wiping their tears away. Even Elspeth felt her eyes well up slightly, ducking her head so Sherlock wouldn't see.

"If I try and hug him, stop me," John whispered to Mary.

"Certainly not," she promised, patting his arm.

Sherlock moved onto his next card. "Ah, yes. Now on to some funny stories about John . . ." his voice trailed off when he looked up, frowning. "What's wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that? John?" he looked down at John. "Did I do it wrong?"

"No you didn't," John said, rising to his feet. "Come here." He pulled Sherlock into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and pulling him close, and everyone broke into applause. Elspeth beamed up at Sherlock and John.

"So, on to some funny stories –" Sherlock began when John released him, talking over the applause. John laughed and patted Sherlock on the shoulder.

"Can you – can you wait until I sit down?" John asked him. The applause continued, John sat down, and Sherlock waited impatiently for the clapping to fade away.

"So, on to some funny stories about John," he repeated. John chuckled. "If you could all just cheer up a bit, that would be better. On we go. So, for funny stories –" Sherlock paused, taking his phone out of his pocket. "–one has to look no further than John's blog."

"Oh no," Elspeth moaned quietly, laughing when Sherlock held the phone up.

"The record of our time together. Of course, he does tend to romanticise things a bit, but then, you know –" Sherlock paused again to wink at John and Mary. "– he's a romantic. We've tackled some strange cases: the Hollow Client, the Poison Giant. We've had some frustrating cases, 'touching' cases, and of _course_ I have to mention the elephant in the room."

John and Elspeth grimaced at each other – that had been one of the most bizarre cases they'd ever experienced.

"But we want something . . . very particular for this special day, don't we?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyes. "The Bloody Guardsman."

* * *

**The Bloody Guardsman**

"Need to work on your half of the Church, Mary. Looking a bit thin," Sherlock commented, looking over his shoulder to Mary, who sat at the dining table with a cardboard 3D model of the reception venue. Sherlock had pinned several pieces of paper to the wall, all with headings – Transport, Catering, Rehearsal, and Wine amongst other things. He was more organised than John and Mary put together.

Mary smiled. "Ah, orphan's lot. Friends – that's all I have. Lots of friends," she said.

"Schedule the organ music to begin at precisely 11.48."

"But the rehearsal's not for another two weeks. Just calm down," Mary told Sherlock, who looked at her indignantly. He was taking his role as best man very seriously.

"Calm? I _am_ calm. I'm _extremely _calm."

"Let's get back to the reception, come on," Mary said, waving Sherlock over. "Ellie, you too. We need all the help we can get." Reluctantly, Elspeth huffed and got up from the sofa, which she had been sprawled across, sitting down between Sherlock and Mary. "John's cousin. Top table?" Mary asked, handing Sherlock an RSVP card.

"Hates you," Elspeth said with a grimace. She took the card from Sherlock. "_Really _hates you. Second class post, the card was bought at a petrol station – she really doesn't like you. Sorry."

Sherlock smiled at Elspeth proudly. Mary took the card, frowning. "Ah." She looked over her shoulder at John. "Let's stick her by the bogs." Elspeth laughed and Mary leaned closer. "Who else hates me?" she asked, her eyes flickering between Sherlock and Elspeth. Instantly, Sherlock handed her a list of names. "Oh great. Thanks."

"Priceless painting nicked," John said, looking at his phone. He was quite comfortable in his armchair, excused from wedding planning for a few hours. He loved Mary so, so much, but wedding planning was exhausting. "Looks interesting."

Mary looked at the paperwork on the table. "Table four –"

"Done."

John laughed to himself. "My husband is three people," he read.

"Table five –"

"Major James Sholto. Who is he?" Sherlock asked, looking at the list and then at Mary.

"Oh, John's old commanding officer. I don't think he's coming."

"He'll be there," John said.

"Well, he needs to RSVP, then," Mary replied, turning in her chair slightly so she could look at him.

"He'll _be _there," John insisted firmly, and Mary knew better than to argue with him. "My husband is three people," he repeated, looking back down at his phone. "It's interesting. Says he has three distinct patterns of moles on his skin."

"Identical triplets – one in half a million births. Solved it without leaving the flat. Now, serviettes," Sherlock said quickly, not even bothering to pause for breath. He left the table, crouched down, and pulled a tray out from underneath the coffee table. "Swan, or Sydney Opera House?"

"Where did you learn to do that?" Mary asked with a wide grin. Elspeth tried not to laugh.

"Many unexpected skills required in the field of criminal investigation –"

"Fibbing, Sherlock."

"I once broke an alibi by demonstrating the exact severity of –"

"I'm not John, I can tell when you're fibbing," Mary said sternly. Elspeth's grin dropped. When Elspeth lived with John and Mary, she knew she was in trouble because Mary would use _that_ tone of voice.

"Ok, I learned it on Youtube," Sherlock finally admitted with exasperation.

"Opera House, please," Mary said with a smile. "Ooh, hang on, I'm buzzing." She reached into her pocket, took out her phone and answered it. "Hello? Oh, hi, Beth!" John lifted his eyes as Mary headed through to the kitchen. "Yeah, yeah, don't see why not."

"Actually, if that's Beth, it's probably for me too," John said. "Hang on." He followed Mary into the kitchen – there was no friend called Beth, it was their code to leave the room so they could talk about Sherlock or Elspeth. John was certain one of them would work it out sooner or later.

"How did you do that?" Elspeth asked Sherlock, watching him fold napkins. Getting up from her seat, she sat down on the floor with him and crossed her legs, picking up one of the napkins. "Show me!"

"Fold it there –"

"Here?"

"No, _there_," Sherlock said impatiently. "Hold that corner – no, the other one. The _other one_, Ellie."

"This one?"

"No – give that here." Sherlock snatched the napkin from Elspeth impatiently. Elspeth retaliated by scrunching another napkin up into a ball and throwing it at his head when he wasn't looking. By the time John returned from the kitchen, Sherlock was surrounded by napkins folded into Sydney Opera Houses. "That just sort of . . . happened," Sherlock offered as some kind of explanation, gesturing towards the napkins.

John frowned. "Sherlock, um . . . _mate_ –" he grimaced, wondering if he was overdoing the act. Mary had convinced him to take Sherlock and Elspeth out on a case to assure them everything was still the same. "I've – I've smelled eighteen different perfumes, I've sampled –" John paused to think, sitting at the table with Sherlock. Elspeth remained on the floor, watching them. "–nine different slices of cake which all tasted identical, I like the bridesmaids in purple –"

"Lilac," Sherlock interjected.

"Lilac," John repeated. "Um, there are no more decisions left to make. I don't even understand the decisions that we have made. I'm faking opinions and it's exhausting, so please, before she comes back –" glancing towards the kitchen, John handed Sherlock his phone. "– pick something. _Anything_. Pick one."

Sherlock's eyes flickered down to the screen. "Pick what?" he asked.

"A case. Your Inbox is bursting. Just . . . get me out of here," John pleaded. Elspeth watched the pair closely, her eyebrows pulling together slightly.

"You want to go out on a case? Now?"

"Please, Sherlock, for me."

Sherlock took the phone. "Don't you worry about a thing. I'll get you out of this," he promised quietly, then flicked through the messages. It only took a few seconds for his eyes to light up in interest. "Oh."

'_Dear Mr Holmes, My name is Bainbridge. I'm a Private in Her Majesty's Household Guard. I'm writing to you about a personal matter, one I don't care to bring before my superiors – it would sound so trivial – but I think someone's stalking me. I'm used to tourists – it's part of the job – but this is different. Someone's watching me. He's taking pictures of me every day. Don't want to mention it to the major, but it's really preying on my mind_.'

"Some sort of uniform fetish?" Elspeth guessed, still sitting crossed legged on the floor. Sherlock made a quiet noise of agreement.

"All the nice girls like a soldier," he said.

"It's sailor," John corrected. "And Bainbridge thinks his stalker is a bloke. Let's go and investigate. Please?"

"Elite Guard," Sherlock read.

"Forty enlisted men and officers."

"Why this _particular_ Grenadier? Curious," Sherlock murmured. A grin slowly spreading across her face, Elspeth climbed to her feet and picked up her jacket. They hadn't been on a case for weeks – all they did was plan the wedding, and though she was excited about being a bridesmaid, Elspeth was so_ bored_.

"Now you're talking," John said with a wide grin. Sherlock handed him his phone.

"Bye," Mary said into her phone, walking back into the living room. Sherlock, John, and Elspeth all scrambled to their feet, fumbling for excuses.

"Er, we're just going to . . . I need, um, Sherlock to help me choose some – er – socks," John stammered, just as Sherlock said " – ties," simultaneously. Elspeth frowned, looking at them, and Mary's eyes flickered between the two men.

"Why don't we go with socks?" she suggested. "I mean, you've got to get the right ones."

"Exactly – to go with my outfit," John agreed.

"– ties," Sherlock repeated lamely. Elspeth gave him a look, rolled her eyes and strode out of the room to collect her phone from her bedroom. John went to the kitchen to find his coat. "Just going to take them out for a bit," Sherlock said quietly to Mary.

"I know. You _said_ you'd find them a case!" Mary said happily.

"Come on Dad, John!" Elspeth called as she bounded back downstairs, her phone in her pocket and her bag on her shoulder. John left the kitchen, both men turning to face Mary, unaware that the other was giving her a signal to indicate everything was going to plan. She grinned back, gave them both a thumbs up, and watched them go with a fond smile.

Later, Sherlock, John and Elspeth sat on a bench, looking towards the gates of the barracks opposite them. Elspeth sat facing John and Sherlock, her legs curled up to her chest as she thought.

"How do they do it?" she wondered aloud. "How do they resist the urge to scratch their behinds?"

"Afferent neurons in the peripheral nervous system," John said. Sherlock and Elspeth gave him sideways glances. "Bum itch," he explained. Nodding with understanding, Elspeth sighed and waited.

"Your previous commander, Sholto," Sherlock said.

"_Previous_ commander?" John repeated, making Sherlock shut his eyes.

"I meant ex."

"Previous suggests that I currently _have_ a commander," John said. "Which I don't."

"I don't know, Mary's pretty bossy sometimes," Elspeth teased. John reached out and playfully slapped her on the knee, a small smile on his face.

"He was decorated, wasn't he?" Sherlock asked. "A war hero."

"Not to everyone. He led a team of crows into battle." Sherlock and Elspeth frowned at John, mild confusion in their eyes. "New recruits. It's standard procedure, break the new boys in – but it went wrong. They all died. He was the only survivor. The press and the families gave him hell. He gets more death threats than _you_."

"Oh, I wouldn't count on that," Sherlock muttered with a wry grin in Elspeth's direction. Suspicious, John asked him why he was taking such a sudden interest in another person. "I'm . . . chatting." John raised his eyebrows. Elspeth stared at Sherlock. He gave them both a sideways glance. "Won't be trying _that_ again."

"Changing the subject completely," John said. "You know it won't alter anything, right, me and Mary, getting married? We'll still be doing all this."

"Oh good."

"If you were worrying."

"I wasn't worried."

"See, the thing about Mary – she has completely turned my life around, changed everything. But, for the record, over the last few years there are three people who have done that, and the other one is –" John stopped, looked around and realised that Sherlock and Elspeth had both gone without saying anything. "– a complete dickhead," John finished.

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, GeorgyannWayson, Bookworm45669, SJBHasADayPass, EICochrane, daisytalortardis, tardislover1, Destiny Xavier16, bellechat, WerewolfHybrid31, Meg, Adrillian1497, Hannah Skywalker - Jedi Padawan, Ms Moonshoes Potter, Tayla, ElizabethCullen08, nakari ash, Aimee, Nostalgic Beauty and iwanttobeaneverdeen for reviewing!


	10. Chapter 10

_**10.**_

**The Bloody Guardsman. **

Sherlock Holmes was officially the most ridiculous man ever. Elspeth watched incredulously as he marched behind the Guards with a regulation bearskin hat on and his highly _non_-regulation coat, trudging after him while her eyes darted about, waiting to be called out. Miraculously, no one seemed to notice the young woman following the Guards.

Taking the bearskin off, Sherlock perched it on a nearby ledge and took a few seconds to ruffle his hair, using the window as a mirror.

"You are so vain," Elspeth scoffed, rolling her eyes. Sherlock ignored her. "This is ridiculous. Why couldn't we have just gone in with John?"

"John's talking, we need a proper look around," Sherlock said, striding past her and into the barracks. Elspeth followed him quickly, almost bumping into him when he stopped abruptly; two Guards in standard khaki attire walked down the stairs, and seemed to take no notice of Sherlock or Elspeth. He trotted up the stairs and Elspeth huffed, running after him.

When they reached the landing, Sherlock opened a nearby door and peeked inside the rec room. Two of the soldiers were playing table tennis and several others were watching. Elspeth continued to peer inside the room even when Sherlock walked away, finding all the men in uniform strangely attractive. It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes as he strode back down the corridor, shut the door to the rec room and grabbed Elspeth by the sleeve, physically dragging her away.

"What?" she complained, annoyed. "I was only looking."

"Look down there," Sherlock ordered, pointing down the other end of the corridor. Letting go of her sleeve, he strode in the opposite direction he had pointed. Elspeth scowled, stuck her tongue out at his retreating back and then turned around.

"Look down there," she muttered under her breath. She stopped at the first door, tried to open it, and found that it was locked. "Do this, do that, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I can do whatever I want," she continued, crouching down and taking a hairpin out of her hair. "Bloody git."

"What do you think you're doing?"

Slowly, Elspeth looked over her shoulder, grinning sheepishly when she saw one of the guards looming over her with an expectant expression on his face. She stood up.

"Er –" she hid the hairpin, putting it in her pocket and groping for something. She held up a leaflet she'd been given earlier that day; it had a picture of golden gates on a fluffy cloud, along with a large print of the Church slogan. "Have you got time to talk about Jesus Christ, our Lord and Saviour?" Elspeth asked.

The guard was not amused. Grabbing Elspeth by the arm and twisting it behind her back so she made an indignant noise, he pushed her down the corridor.

"Found another one," he told his companion, who was holding Sherlock in a similar grip.

"Could've warned me," Elspeth grumbled, glowering at him. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The two guards forced them down the corridor, pushing them into a room. It took Elspeth a second to realise that they were in the shower room, broken glass littering the floor. John sighed when he saw Sherlock and Elspeth, rolling his eyes.

"Sir, caught these two snooping around."

Major Reed, the man John had been speaking to while Sherlock and Elspeth looked around the barracks, turned to John with an accusing glare. "Is that what this was all about? Distracting me so that these two could get in here and kill Bainbridge?" he demanded.

"Kill," Elspeth repeated quietly, her eyes moving across the room. She felt her stomach twist when she saw the body of a man lying on the ground, surrounded by blood that was pooling from his lower back. "Oh God," she whispered, shutting her eyes. Sherlock pulled away from the guard holding him.

"Take her outside," he said to the guard behind Elspeth, who stared back at him. "Take her outside _now_."

"She's having a mild anxiety attack," John said quickly, using a calmer tone than Sherlock in hope that it would appease to Reed. "Just take her outside the room and let her calm down, she won't run, I swear."

"Do as they say," Reed told the guard. "Don't let her out of your sight."

With Elspeth out of the room, Sherlock could turn his attention to the body on the ground – Bainbridge, Reed had said. The client.

"What would I have killed him with?" Sherlock asked. "Where's the weapon?" Reed stared at him. "Where's the weapon? Go on, search me. No weapon."

"Bainbridge was on parade. He came off duty five minutes ago. When's this supposed to have happened?" John asked.

"You obviously stabbed him before he got into the shower," Reed said to Sherlock, who shook his head.

"No."

"_No_?"

"He's soaking wet and there's still shampoo in his hair. He got into the shower and _then_ someone stabbed him."

"The cubicle was locked from the inside, sir. I had to break it open," one of the guards confirmed.

"You must have climbed over the top," Reed accused, convinced it was Sherlock.

"Well then I'd be soaking wet _too_, wouldn't I?" Sherlock pointed out, resisting the strong urge to roll his eyes. It was obvious, _so_ obvious.

"Major, please," John said loudly. I'm John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and _Bart's bloody Hospital_. Let me examine this body." After a few seconds of deliberation, Reed nodded sharply at the guard, who released John. "Thank you," he said shortly, putting his jacket down and crouching beside Bainbridge.

"Suicide?" one of the guards asked Sherlock quietly.

"No. The weapon again – no knife."

After a quick sweep of the shower stall, Sherlock squatted by Bainbridge's head while John examined his lower back.

"There is a wound to the abdomen – incredibly fine," he said.

"Man stabbed to death. No murder weapon. Door locked from the inside. Only one way in or out of here," Sherlock said thoughtfully, watching John peel open one of Bainbridge's eyes.

"Sherlock," he said. "He's still breathing."

"What do we do?" Sherlock asked him.

"Give me your scarf – quickly, _now_." Sherlock unwrapped his scarf from his neck and handed it to John, who looked up at Reed. "Call an ambulance. Call an ambulance _now_." He pointed towards the door, glaring at Reed when he hesitated. "_Do it!" _John yelled.

Reed and the guards hurried from the room. John pressed the scarf against the wound on Bainbridge's back and then grabbed Sherlock's hand, putting it on top of the scarf, holding his hand in position.

"Nurse, press here – hard," he ordered.

Sherlock scrunched his nose up in distaste. "Nurse?" he repeated.

"Yeah, I'm making do. Keep pressure on that wound."

* * *

**Reception.**

"Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty. He'd stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong. He came off duty and within minutes was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach, but there was no weapon. Where did it go? Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider this: a murderer who can walk through walls, a weapon that can vanish – but in all of this there is only one element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?" Sherlock asked, looking around the reception hall.

No one answered, the guests fidgeting as they glanced at each other.

"Come on, come on, there is actually an element of Q and A to all of this," Sherlock said impatiently. Elspeth leaned back in her seat, rolling her eyes. "Scotland Yard, have _you_ got a theory?"

Lestrade lifted his head, his mouth open slightly as he stared back at Sherlock with a blank expression.

"Yeah, you," Sherlock said, like he was talking to a child. "You're a detective – broadly speaking. Got a theory?"

"Er – um – if the, uh, if the . . . blade was, er, propelled through the . . . um –" Lestrade paused, thinking for a moment. "–grating in the air vent . . . maybe a ballista or a – or a catapult. Erm, somebody tiny could crawl in there." Lestrade stopped again, taking in a deep breath. "So yeah, we're looking for a dwarf," he concluded. Molly pressed her lips together, trying hard not to laugh, and Elspeth's shoulders shook as she giggled. Sherlock stared at Lestrade blankly.

"Brilliant," he said

"Really?"

"No," Sherlock snapped, and Lestrade sighed as he lowered his head again. He much preferred looking at his drink anyway. Molly gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm. "Next!"

Tom leaned over to Molly. "He stabbed himself," he whispered. Sherlock heard him.

"Hello? Who was that?" he asked, looking around. His eyes rested on Tom, who stared back at him with wide eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights. "Tom," Sherlock said. "Got a theory?"

Grimacing, Tom rose to his feet. He swayed nervously from one foot to the other for a moment. "Um . . . attempted suicide," he said tentatively. "With a blade made of compacted blood and bone – broke after piercing his abdomen. Like . . . a meat . . . dagger."

Several guests sniggered and Molly's face was a picture of disbelief, seriously reconsidering their engagement. Sherlock stared at Tom, wondering how he ever convinced Molly Hooper to want to marry him. She was an intelligent woman. Tom was a bit of an idiot, it seemed.

"A meat dagger," Sherlock repeated, speaking very precisely. Tom nodded awkwardly.

"Sit. Down," Molly said through gritted teeth.

"No," Sherlock told Tom, who sat down. "There was _one_ feature, and _only_ one feature, of interest in the whole of this baffling case, and quite frankly it was the usual. John Watson – who, while I was trying to solve the murder, instead saved a life." Mary laughed in quiet delight. "There _are_ mysteries worth solving and stories worth telling. The best and bravest man I know – and on top of that he actually knows how to do stuff, except wedding planning and serviettes – he's rubbish at those."

"True!" John agreed, laughing. Several other people laughed as well,

"The case itself remains the most ingenious and brilliantly-planned murder – or attempted murder – I've ever had the pleasure to encounter; the most perfect locked-room mystery of which I am aware. However, I'm not just here to praise John – I'm also here to embarrass him, so let's move on to some –"

"No-no, wait, so how was it . . . how was it done?" Lestrade interrupted.

"How was _what_ done?"

"The stabbing."

Sherlock looked down awkwardly and Elspeth gave her father a sympathetic smile. "I'm afraid I don't know. I didn't solve that one," Sherlock finally admitted. "It can happen sometimes. It's very . . . disappointing." Sherlock looked reflective for a moment, then took in a deep breath and looked at the guests. "Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night. Of course there's hours of material here, but I've cut it down to the really good bits."

* * *

**St Bart's Hospital; a few hours before the Stag Night. **

"Murder scenes?" Molly asked. She looked at Sherlock. "Locations of . . . murders?"

"Pub crawl," he explained. "Themed."

"Yeah, but why – why can't you just do Underground stations?"

Sherlock screwed his nose up, shaking his head. "Lacks a personal touch. We're going to go for a drink in every street where we –"

"–every street where you found a corpse," Molly finished for him. Sherlock nodded. Elspeth had helped him think of it. "Delightful. Where do I come in?"

"Don't want to get ill. That would ruin it – spoil the mood."

"You're a graduate chemist. Can't you just work it out?"

"I lack the practical experience," Sherlock said, giving Molly what he imagined was a pleasant smile. He was surprised when she gave him a dark look in return.

"Meaning you think I like a drink," she said. Her voice had dropped half an octave.

"Occasionally."

"That I'm a drunk."

"No. No!" Sherlock said quickly, realising his mistake. Molly sternly held his gaze and he looked away, blinking for a couple of seconds as he tried to find something to say. "You look . . . well."

"I am."

"How's . . ." Sherlock looked away again, frowning as he searched for the right name. ". . . Tom?" he asked tentatively, looking at Molly for confirmation.

"Not a sociopath," she said instantly.

"Still? Good."

Molly smiled. "And we're having quite a lot of sex," she told him suddenly. Sherlock's eyes flickered between her and mid-air for a moment as he struggled to find an appropriate response.

"Ok," he said. Taking a large folder of papers from his coat, he dropped it onto the table. "I want you to calculate John's ideal intake, and mine, to remain in the sweet spot the whole evening. Light headed, good –"

"Urinating in wardrobes, bad," Molly finished.

* * *

**Stag Night**

"Two, er . . . beers, please," Sherlock ordered uncertainly, glancing over his shoulder at John, who was waiting by a bench.

"Pints?" the bartender asked.

Sherlock took two tall, slender glass graduated cylinders from his coat pockets and put them onto the bar. "Four hundred and forty-three point seven millilitres," he said with a smile. The bartender gave him a strange look, but did as Sherlock requested. John stared at the cylinders when Sherlock returned to the bench, sighing.

"Are we on a schedule?" he asked when Sherlock took his phone out and selected an app.

"You'll thank me."

For the next four pubs, Sherlock and John managed to stay out of trouble. They drank the beers Sherlock bought for them, and Sherlock kept track of their alcohol intake. By the fifth bar, they were both beginning to feel the effects of the beer they were drinking.

"Over there," Sherlock shouted when John looked around the room.

John leaned closer, unable to hear him over the loud music. "What?"

"Toilets. Any second now, you're going to –"

"Hang on," John yelled, patting Sherlock's arm. "Tell me after – I need the loo."

"On schedule," Sherlock said to himself, checking his phone.

"What?"

"Nothing – go!"

John stumbled away and Sherlock updated the charts on his phone while he waited. When John returned to the table, Sherlock tried to ask him how long he took urinating. For some reason, John refused to talk about it.

At the next pub, John took a couple of sneaky shots when Sherlock wasn't looking and then poured one into his beer. He was so drunk, however, that he immediately forgot which cylinder he had mixed the shot with, looking at them both for a few seconds before handing one to Sherlock. They were both plastered by the time they reached the next pub, and in the smoking area outside the pub, Sherlock somehow managed to get into a drunken fight with a stranger.

"I know ash!" Sherlock yelled, gesticulating wildly. "Don't – tell – me – I – don't!" with each word, he poked the man in the chest, then put his hand on the man's shoulder and pushed him away. John, who had been sitting at a nearby table, drunk and oblivious, looked up as the man swung a punch at Sherlock. Luckily, Sherlock swayed backwards and avoided it.

"Alright, alright, enough!" John shouted, his words slurring together slightly as he grabbed Sherlock from behind, Sherlock flailing wildly in his arms. Lifting Sherlock to his feet, he pushed him towards the exit.

"Ashtrays," Sherlock said, pointing towards the stranger. "I know ashtrays."

* * *

**Later That Night. **

"I have an international reputation," Sherlock slurred, lying on his side on the stairs of 221B. John was lying on his back next to him, briefly opening his eyes and then shutting them again as he shifted his head into a more comfortable position. Sherlock looked at him over his shoulder. "Do _you_ have an international reputation?"

"No, I don't have an international reputation."

"No." Sherlock paused, then turned his head towards John again. "And I can't even remember what for." He thought for a second. "Crime . . . something or other." Grunting quietly, Sherlock rested his head on the stair again. The door to 221A opened, and Mrs Hudson walked out with a bag of rubbish in her hand. She stopped in surprise when she saw John and Sherlock.

"Ooh! What are _you_ doing back?" she asked them. "I thought you were going to be out late."

"Ah Hudders," Sherlock said, his words slurring together. Mrs Hudson smiled fondly at him. "What time is it?"

"You've only been out two hours."

John and Sherlock sat up, trying to stand, but found they were wedged too tightly together. After a moments struggle, Sherlock fell off his step and landed heavily on his backside on the next one down.

"Hey!" Sherlock said suddenly, grabbing hold of the banister and hauling himself up. John tried to focus on him. "We should . . . we should tell Ellie that we're here."

John nodded drunkenly, using the step behind him to stand up. He turned around, took a step upwards, and promptly fell down on his front, which set them both into hysterical laughter for no apparent reason. It took them far longer to climb up the steps that they normally would've been able to, laughing the whole way.

"Ellie!" Sherlock said loudly, bursting into her room and stumbling forwards. He crashed into her wardrobe, mumbling an apology. "We're home!"

Elspeth was sitting in her bed, reading her book, and looked up when Sherlock staggered forwards. "I can see that," she said with a wry grin. She put her book down. "Why are you back so early?"

"Pubs are boring," Sherlock said with a vague wave of his hand. He collapsed onto the bed next to her, gazing up at her, and John leaned against the doorframe, half asleep. "They're . . . _so_ boring. I was _bored_."

"Sounds like it. What are you going to do now?"

"Er . . ." Sherlock flopped onto his back, turning his head towards John, who stumbled forwards when he fell asleep against the doorframe. He jolted away. "John," Sherlock called drunkenly. "What are we going to do now?"

John frowned and looked thoughtful, then shrugged. "Dunno," he said.

"Why don't you play a game?" Elspeth suggested, patting Sherlock on the arm. He gasped, staring at her in shock.

"That is such a good idea!" he said. Pushing himself up, he pinched her cheeks and pressed a sloppy kiss on her forehead. "You are a _genius_. John! Let's play a game!" Sherlock threw his legs over the side of the bed, stumbled slightly, and then strode across the room, pulling John along with him. There was a brief silence before a sudden thud, followed by Sherlock and John's hysterical laughter.

Elspeth groaned, lowering her head onto her knees. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Thank you GeorgyannWayson, EICochrane, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Bookworm45669, iwanttobeaneverdeen, Ms Moonshoes Potter, youngblood killjoy, Tayla, Adrillian1497, bellechat, ElizabethCullen08, SJBHasADayPass, Aimee and tardislover1 for reviewing!

Ahh, drunk Sherlock and John are exceedingly fun to write. Poor Ellie. She's going to have a hard time looking after them.


	11. Chapter 11

_**11.**_

**Stag Night; 221B**

When Elspeth joined Sherlock and John downstairs, wearing the tank top she wore to bed with a pair of jeans and a hoodie over the top, she wasn't surprised to see them sitting in their chairs, Rizzla papers stuck to their foreheads. Sherlock's had his name written on it in John's handwriting, and on John's Rizzla paper, Sherlock had scrawled Madonna. Rolling her eyes, she wandered through to the kitchen to make herself some coffee. She was going to need it if she was going to stay up with them.

"Am I a . . . vegetable?" John guessed. Sherlock tightened his hand on his glass of whiskey and pointed at John with the other hand.

"You, or the thing?" They both sniggered, and after a bit of prompting from John, Sherlock raised his head and peered at John. "No, you're not a vegetable."

"It's your go," John told him, picking up his own glass and drinking from it. Clutching her coffee, Elspeth sat down on the sofa.

"Er . . . am I human?"

"Sometimes."

"Can't have _sometimes_, has to be um . . ." Sherlock's voice trailed off. He struggled to straighten up in his chair.

"Yes, you're human," John said, leaning back. He slumped slightly. Elspeth tried not to laugh, reaching for her phone. This was too good not to film.

". . . _yes_ or _no_," Sherlock finished his earlier sentence, then seemed to realise what John had told him. "Ok." He leaned forwards, swayed from side to side and braced himself with his upper arms on his legs. "And am I a man?"

"Yep."

"Tall?"

John held his hands out wide, shrugging. "Not as tall as people think," he said.

"Nice?" Sherlock guessed.

"Ish."

"Clever?"

"I'd say so," John said. Elspeth bit her lip, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous the situation was. She continued to film them on her phone.

"You would? Mmm, am I important?"

"To s – some people," John stammered, tripping over his words slightly as he slurred.

"Do 'people' –" Sherlock made vague air quotes around the word. "– like me?"

John paused, reaching for his glass but not picking it up. "Er – no, they don't. You tend to rub 'em up the wrong way."

"Ok," Sherlock said. John sniggered. Slumping back in his chair, Sherlock pushed himself back up when he had a thought, leaning towards John. "Am I the current King of England?"

Elspeth couldn't help it; she burst into hysterical laughter, leaning back on the sofa and laughing so much that her sides hurt. "We don't _have_ a King, Dad," she told him, giggling. Sherlock stared back at her.

"Don't we?" he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Are you sure?" Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock leaned back in his seat and looked at John. "Your go."

Unfolding his legs, John shifted forwards until he reached the edge of his seat, which he immediately started to slide off. He reached out, put his hand on Sherlock's knee and braced himself. John pushed himself back on his chair, realised his hand was still on his friend's knee and pulled away. He shrugged.

"I don't mind," he said. Sherlock shrugged, indicating he wasn't bothered either. "Am I a woman?"

Sherlock looked back at John for a second, then snorted with laughter. "Yes."

John tried to straighten up in his seat again. "Am I . . . pretty?" he asked, pointing up at the Rizzla paper on his forehead. "This?"

"Er . . . er – beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models," Sherlock told him. John propped his head up on one fist.

"Yeah, but am I a pretty lady?"

Sherlock leaned forwards and screwed his eyes up in concentration. "I don't know who you are," he admitted. "I don't know who you're supposed to be."

"You picked the name!" John said incredulously.

"Ah, but I picked it at random from the papers."

"You're not really getting the hang of this game, are you, Sherlock?" John grumbled, slumping back down in his seat. Elspeth smiled sympathetically. Sherlock ignored him, raising his eyes to the Rizla paper on his forehead.

"So I am human, I'm not as tall as people think I am, I'm . . . I'm nice – ish, clever, important to some people, but I tend to rub them up the wrong way." Sherlock suddenly laughed in delight, and John propped his socked feet up on his friend's armchair as he stretched out. "Got it! I'm _you_, aren't I?"

Elspeth smiled fondly at her father, not having the heart to tell him that he was completely and utterly wrong. At that moment, Mrs Hudson knocked on the door. Elspeth looked up, frowning when she saw the woman in a nurse uniform.

"Client!" Mrs Hudson announced. Both Sherlock and John greeted her in a friendly manner.

"Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?" the woman – her badge said Tessa – asked, her eyes flickering between Sherlock, John and Elspeth. Smiling broadly, John raised his hand and, whistling a single rising note through his teeth in time with his hand movement, pointed at the words on Sherlock's Rizla. Sherlock grinned broadly at her. Elspeth felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"Do you want to come in?" she asked, standing up abruptly. "You can sit here and erm . . . Dad, John, come sit on the sofa."

Sherlock and John had a bit of trouble standing up, laughing as they tried to pull each other up. They ended up collapsing in a heap on the floor and it took Elspeth two minutes to untangle them from each other, pushing them both towards the sofa. Tessa smiled nervously as she sat down on the dining chair Elspeth put down in front of them.

"So," Sherlock slurred, leaning forwards and peering at her badge. "_Tessa_. What's your problem?"

"Er – one sec," Elspeth said. She reached over and ripped the Rizzla papers from their heads. "Ok, go ahead."

"I don't . . . a lot . . . I mean, I don't . . . date all that much . . ." Tessa stammered. Sherlock sank back on the sofa and John smiled, trying to keep his eyes open. ". . . and he seemed . . . nice, you know? We seemed to automatically connect. We had one night – dinner, such interesting conversation. It was . . . lovely."

John smiled again, glancing at Sherlock. Elspeth perched on the arm of the sofa next to her father. She was the only one really paying attention to Tessa.

"To be honest, I'd love to have gone further . . ." Tessa said wistfully. Sherlock's eyes drifted shut and Elspeth gave him a not so subtle shove. He forced his eyes open again. "But I thought, 'No, this is special. Let's take it slowly, exchange numbers. He said he'd get in touch and then –" Tessa cut herself off, looking down sadly. Elspeth felt a pang of sympathy for her. "Maybe he wasn't quite as keen as I was but I – I just thought –" suddenly, she became tearful. "At least he'd call to say that we were finished."

Tessa lifted a hand and wiped a tear away from her eye, falling silent. Sherlock's face filled with sympathy and sadness, his heart aching when he realised what had happened to the poor woman – he frowned suddenly. Where had _that_ come from?

"I went round there, to his flat. No trace of him. Mr Holmes . . ." at the mention of his name, Sherlock gave Tessa a goofy grin. "I honestly think I had dinner . . . with a ghost."

Elspeth frowned. "A ghost," she repeated, staring at Tessa for a few seconds. She looked at Sherlock, wondering what he'd have to say. She was mortified to see that both he and John had fallen asleep. "Dad," Elspeth hissed, grinning sheepishly at Tessa. She tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "_Dad_," Elspeth repeated loudly. Sherlock jolted awake.

"Boring, boring, boring – no!" he said suddenly. He forced himself into an upright position. "_Fascinating_! John – _John_! Wake up!" Sherlock reached over to shake John's leg, realising his friend was fast asleep, and John flailed about as he woke up. "Apologies about my . . . you know, thing," Sherlock slurred. Pulling in a deep breath, he pointed at John. "Rude. _Rude!"_

Tessa looked at Elspeth uncertainly, and Elspeth could only grimace in response. "They're not usually like this," she said quietly.

"I checked with the landlord, and the man who lived there_ died_. Heart attack. And there _we _are, having dinner one week on," Tessa continued. "And I found this thing online, sort of chat room thing –" she handed Sherlock a printout. "–for girls who think they're dating men from the spirit world."

John had fallen asleep again, but Sherlock stood up and wobbled a little unsteadily. "Don't worry, I'll find him in ten minutes," he assured Tessa, who beamed up at him. "_What's _your dog's name?"

Tessa stopped beaming. Elspeth sighed, stood up and picked up her boots.

"Yeah, I'm there if you want it," John mumbled, still fast asleep.

"John! Wake up!" Sherlock reached down, shoving John on the shoulder. John nearly fell over. "We're meant to . . ." Sherlock's voice trailed off. He clicked his fingers. "The game's . . ." he waved a hand vaguely. ". . . _something_."

Sherlock stumbled away, quickly followed by Elspeth. She was worried that he would fall down the stairs or something awful like that. Meanwhile, John was applying all his mental skills to the problem posed by Sherlock, his forehead creasing as he frowned.

". . . on!" John said suddenly. Sherlock staggered back, pointing at him.

"Yeah, that, that!" he said excitedly, and then stumbled away. John slowly rose to his feet. Elspeth followed him and Sherlock with a sigh. This was going to be a _really_ long night.

* * *

**Later That Night**

The apartment was a warehouse conversion, spacious with a high ceiling and contemporary furniture. Staggering into the middle, Sherlock grinned drunkenly at his reflection in a glass plate and looked over his shoulder at Elspeth, who was watching John with bemusement; he was leaning against a supporting pillar nearby.

"Ohh, it's nice!" John told Tessa enthusiastically. Sherlock fell over onto the sofa. The landlord, who had let them in, huffed and crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Nice place," John added, nodding. Sherlock got up and tottered about the living room.

"See anything?" Tessa asked. Sherlock looked at her. "Any clues, Mr Holmes?"

"Oh. Er . . ." Sherlock eyes did a sweep of the room, making drunken deductions. Coffee table: _designer, table, art? _Armchair: _chair, seat, leather, sleeeeep._ Speaker: _thing, speaker, hi – tech thing. _Painted animal skull: _? death? Skull – deaded? _The ornament on the windowsill: _wood? ?pipe/tube/wotsit. Thinggamebob? _Pale green egg chair: _egg? Chair? Sitting thing? _

Elspeth watched Sherlock as he wandered about uncertainly, her arms crossed and her cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment. The landlord kept shooting her looks, obviously wondering what she was doing with John and Sherlock, but she refused to leave them until they had sobered up.

Sherlock grinned suddenly. "I'm just going to whip this out," he announced. Elspeth's eyes widened and she started at her father, relieved when he reached into his coat pocket. He spun around several times, struggling to remove whatever it was he was trying to get, and managed to extract his pouch of equipment from his pocket while simultaneously dropping his coat onto the floor. Sherlock took his magnifier out, holding it up to show to the others.

Tessa smiled awkwardly. Elspeth nodded at Sherlock, then glanced at John. He was still leaning against the pillar, his eyes shut and his breathing steady. He had fallen asleep. Elspeth gently pushed him on the shoulder.

"Wake up," she said with a smile. Sherlock dropped to his knees unsteadily and wobbled forwards on his right elbow. John stared at Elspeth in surprise. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah." John looked at Tessa, pointing at Sherlock and nodding. "He's clueing," he told her.

"What?"

"He's clueing for looks," John elaborated. He would've sounded quite knowledgeable if he had said the words in the right order.

"Very good, John," Elspeth said, nodding at him. She looked at Sherlock. He had toppled forwards with his face digging into the rug, his bum sticking up in the air as he snored. "Dad?" Sherlock didn't stir. He continued to snore loudly. "Dad!"

"I'm calling the police," the landlord announced. He'd had enough of the nonsense. Walking across the rug, he grabbed Sherlock and hauled him up on his knees.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_!" Sherlock cried indignantly. He wasn't happy about being woken up so abruptly. The landlord took a step back.

"This is a famous detective. It's Sherlock Holmes and his partner, John Hamish Watson," Tessa told the landlord. Elspeth frowned, waiting for her introduction. She pressed her lips together when she didn't receive one. No one seemed to notice her annoyance.

"What do you think you're doing?" Sherlock demanded. "Don't compromise the integrity of the –" he cut himself off as he turned around, bent over and threw up on the living room rug. The landlord groaned with disgust, Tessa gasped sympathetically and Elspeth lowered her head into her hand, resisting the strong urge to bash it against one of the walls. John's eyes drifted upwards as he tried to think of the word Sherlock had failed to say.

". . . crime scene!" John said loudly, grinning triumphantly and holding his hand out towards Tessa for her to high-five. She didn't.

Coughing, Sherlock straightened up on his knees. "Yeah, that."

Sherlock looked at the others for a second, peering through his blurred vision, and delicately clicked the magnifier closed before wiping vomit off his chin.

"That's it, I am definitely calling the police," the landlord told them.

"Do us a favour and ask for DI Lestrade," Elspeth said, brushing past him so she could help Sherlock to his feet, steering him towards the sofa.

"Why should I –"

"Just _do_ it," Elspeth snapped with such ferocity that the landlord was slightly taken aback, surprised that a small, young woman was capable of such anger. With Sherlock deposited safely on the sofa, Elspeth got up and grabbed John by the arm, hauling him across the room as well.

"Is there anything I can do?" Tessa offered meekly, her eyes flickering from Elspeth to Sherlock to John, then back to Elspeth.

"Nope, I can handle this."

Elspeth got them both glasses of water, but John was fast asleep by the time she got from the kitchen to the living room. She put his glass on the coffee table, handing another one to Sherlock, who sipped from it carefully. The water still dripped onto the front of his shirt though.

It didn't take long for Lestrade to arrive at the apartment, and when he did, he couldn't help but smirk. "How long were they out for?" he asked Elspeth.

"Two hours. They didn't even make it to closing time."

"Ahh George," Sherlock said, smiling goofily at Lestrade and holding his arms out wide. Elspeth quickly took the glass from him before he could spill anymore water. "These . . . _imbeciles _have been interfering with my crime scene."

"Who's George?" Lestrade asked Elspeth, frowning.

"You, I think."

"Oh right. Come on, John, time to go." Lestrade patted John firmly on the shoulder, waking him up. While he manoeuvred John out of the apartment, Elspeth was left to take care of Sherlock, who continued to grin up at everyone like an idiot. She helped to his feet, mumbled an apology to the landlord and Tessa, and pulled Sherlock out of the room. He flung his arm around her shoulders, both of them stumbling when he did. "Where to, then?" Lestrade asked when Sherlock flopped into the back seat of the car.

"Should probably take them home," Elspeth said. She made sure that Sherlock's seatbelt was done up before sliding into the front seat next to Lestrade.

"Or . . ." Lestrade's voice trailed off thoughtfully, a devious grin spreading across his face. Elspeth looked at him.

"Or what?"

"Or I could leave them in the cells overnight. They are technically under arrest."

Elspeth frowned at him. "What for?"

"Er . . . being drunk and disorderly, vandalising private property –"

"I was _investigating _a _crime scene_," Sherlock interjected drunkenly from the back seat. John had fallen asleep again, slumped in his seat with his head leaning on the window. Lestrade and Elspeth ignored Sherlock.

"I really shouldn't be saying this," Elspeth said. "but go on. I'll let Mary know."

* * *

**The Next Day**

The room was very bright. John squinted and groaned under his breath softly, grimacing at the sound of the door opening. It was so _loud_.

"Wakey – wakey!" Lestrade sung cheerfully, making John flinch.

"Oh my God," he muttered. Looking to his side, he saw that Sherlock was on his back and fast asleep on the bench in the police holding cell. "Greg? Is that Greg?"

"Get up. I'm going to put you two in a taxi," Lestrade told him. "Managed to square things with the desk sergeant." His head pounding, John painfully climbed to his feet, using the wall for support. It wasn't easy. Lestrade laughed disparagingly. "What a couple of lightweights! You couldn't even make it to closing time!"

"Can you whisper?" John asked, staggering towards the door.

"_NOT REALLY!"_ Lestrade yelled into John's ear. Sherlock flailed on the bench, his eyes wide and his mouth open with shock – he wasn't expecting to be woken up so abruptly. He looked around the cell in bewilderment. How did he get there? He couldn't remember very much of the previous night.

John gave Lestrade a look, his eyes full of hurt and betrayal, and left the cell. Lestrade was half tempted to feel sorry for him, but it was just too funny.

"Come on," he prompted Sherlock, who sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bench and tried to stand. He tottered slightly, then fell back down on the bench. Sherlock managed to stand on his second attempt and pressed his fingers to his temples, wobbling on one foot before delicately padding out of the cell.

At the front desk, John and Sherlock's belongings were returned, and Lestrade couldn't help but continue to watch them with amusement. Elspeth had showed him the video she filmed on her phone of them playing that stupid game last night – every time he glanced at them, Lestrade had to suppress the strong urge to laugh.

"Well, thanks for a . . . you know," John said. "An evening."

"It was awful," Sherlock said, who had been grunting with effort when he pulled his coat on.

"Yeah," John agreed. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "I was going to pretend, but it _was_, _truly_."

A thought popped into Sherlock's head then, and he lowered his hand. "That woman, Tessa."

John looked at him in confusion. "What?"

"Dated a ghost. The most interesting case for months – what a _wasted _opportunity."

* * *

Thank you iwanttobeaneverdeen, GeorgyannWayson, tardislover1, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, one more off key anthem, Tayla, EICochrane, nakari ash, Adrillian1497, WerewolfHyrbid31, Ms Moonshoes Potter, Aimee, Bookworm45669, Destiny Xavier, ElizabethCullen08, bellechat and Kayla for reviewing!

Ahhh yes, Moriarty and Ellie. It's true, I have to admit, I somewhat ship them as well. HOWEVER, I completely and utterly understand that assault and abuse does not equate to love, so there won't be any romance. Under different circumstances, though, they would be so so good together.


	12. Chapter 12

_**12.**_

"How are you feeling?" Mrs Hudson asked. John was sitting at her kitchen table while Elspeth perched on the counter, grinning wickedly at him over her mug of coffee. John made a quiet noise and sipped his glass of water. "It's just like old times, having you back here." Looking up from his water, John smiled when Mrs Hudson put down a plate of food in front of him. "Thought I'd make your favourite, one last time."

It was a full English breakfast, all of John's favourites – a fried egg, sausages, mushrooms, baked beans, tomato slices, and buttered toast. His smile faded though.

"Don't sound so . . . final about it. I will be visiting, you know."

"You better," Elspeth said, her grin widening.

John smiled back at her. "It's different though, isn't it? It's different to when we thought we'd lost him."

"Marriage changes everything, John," Mrs Hudson said wisely. John raised his fork to his mouth, then paused as he gazed questioningly at her. "You might not think it, but it does. It's a different phase in your life."

Lowering his fork, John groaned quietly and pushed the plate away from him a little. Elspeth smiled at him sympathetically, her legs swinging.

"You meet new people 'cause you're a couple, and then you just . . . let your old friends slip away."

"It won't be like that," John insisted.

"Well, if you've found the right one – the person that you click with – it's the best thing in the world."

"Well I have. I _know _I have." John was adamant that things would remain the same. Nothing was going to change, he was sure of it.

"Oh I'm sure! She's lovely!" Mrs Hudson agreed enthusiastically.

"Yeah, she's alright," Elspeth teased, then put down her mug. "What about you, Mrs Hudson? Did you find the right one when you married Mr Hudson?" Elspeth had no memories of Mr Hudson. She'd never met him, and she didn't get the chance to because he got himself arrested . . . all Elspeth could really remember was spending a week with Mycroft while Sherlock was in America.

"No!" Mrs Hudson said with a laugh. "It was just a whirlwind thing for us. I knew it wouldn't work, but I just got sort of swept along. And then we moved to Florida. We had a fantastic time, but of course I didn't know what he was up to." Mrs Hudson leaned towards John. "The drugs," she whispered.

"Drugs?" John repeated, laughing incredulously. He then grimaced, clutching his head when pain shot through it.

"He was running . . . um, oh God, what do you call it? Um, a . . . cartel," Mrs Hudson continued. John exchanged an amused glance with Elspeth, who was listening with her head tilted to the side slightly. "Got in with a really bad crowd. And then I found out about all the other women. I didn't have a clue! So, when he was actually arrested for blowing someone's head off – it was quite a relief to be honest."

Elspeth couldn't help but feel a little confused as to how bluntly Mrs Hudson had phrased it, biting down on her bottom lip as she tried to suppress a grin. ". . . right," she said.

"It was purely physical between me and Frank. We couldn't keep our hands off each other."

"Woah woah, too much information," Elspeth announced loudly, holding her hands up in the air. "John, if you're done with breakfast, Dad's back."

"How can you tell?" Mrs Hudson asked her, frowning. Elspeth pointed at the ceiling, tilted her head to the side and listened carefully. A moment later, they heard footsteps above them. Elspeth grinned.

* * *

Four women – five including Tessa. Gail, Charlotte, Robyn and Vicky. To begin with, it was impossible to find the common factor. None of them met him in the same way, none of them gave the same name, and none of the women could give the same address. It didn't even sound like they were describing the same man.

"He's stealing the identity of corpses, getting the names from the Obituary columns. All single men. He's using the dead man's flat under the assumption it'll be empty for a while," Sherlock said aloud as he typed. John had made a comment about his food going cold but Sherlock ignored him. Elspeth curled up in a chair by the dining room table, her arms wrapped loosely around her legs while she hugged them to her chest. "All single men. He's using the dead man's flat under the assumption it'll be empty for a while. Free love nest."

"Ew," Elspeth commented, screwing her nose up.

"Meanwhile, back to business. No-one wants to use a dead man's home. Least not until it's been cleared. So, he disguises himself, steals the man's home, steals his identity."

"But only for one night," John said. Sherlock looked at him. "Then he's gone."

"He's not a ghost, John. He's a _mayfly_. He lives for a day."

What was he looking for though? Sherlock asked the woman their professions, scowling when he realised that none of them worked for the same employer, as he initially suspected. They women had absolutely _nothing _in common.

Apart from . . . "Do you have a secret you've never told anyone?"

"No," the five woman answered simultaneously. Sherlock smiled.

"_Gotcha_."

* * *

**Reception. **

"Married. Obvious, really. Our Mayfly Man was trying to escape the suffocating chains of domesticity and instead of endless nights in, watching the telly, or going to barbecues with awful dreadful boring people he couldn't stand, he used his wits, cleverness and powers of disguise to play the field. He was . . ."

Sherlock's voice trailed off when he realised the audience were no longer listening. He looked down. John frowned back at him, Mary screwed her nose up slightly, and Elspeth silently shook her head at him.

"On second thoughts I _probably_ should have told you about the Elephant in the Room. However, it does help to further illustrate how invaluable John is to me. I can read a crime scene the way he can understand a human being. I used to think that's what made me special – quite frankly, I still do. But a word to the wise: should any of you require the services of either of us, _I_ will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that – I should know. He's saved mine so many times, and in so many ways."

Sherlock paused, holding his phone up.

"This blog is the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures," he continued, making several people laugh. "Of murder, mystery and mayhem. But from now on, there's a new story – a _bigger_ adventure. Ladies and gentlemen, pray charge your glasses and be upstanding." He raised his glass. "Today begin the adventures of Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson."

John sighed a little. Mary giggled and squeezed his hand – poor John despised his middle name.

"The two reasons why every single one of us is –" Sherlock's voice stopped abruptly. He froze. His fingers loosening slightly, the champagne glass slipped from his grip and tumbled to the floor, shattering.

Tessa knew John's middle name. She said it when she introduced him and Sherlock to the landlord on the stag night. Irene Adler knew John's middle name because he mentioned it when he was teasing them about baby names – God knew where _she_ was – and the only time John's middle name was ever made public was on the wedding invitations. Tessa mentioned a wedding.

She had seen the wedding invitation and she had seen the Mayfly Man, which could be a coincidence, but Mycroft had once told him that the universe was rarely so lazy. That could only mean one thing.

"The Mayfly Man is here today," Sherlock said softly. Looking down, he realised that his champagne glass was on the floor, broken to several pieces that caught the light when he gazed down at it. "Oh, sorry I . . . ah, thank you, thank you." Sherlock took another glass that was offered to him, his mind thinking frantically. "Now, where were we?"

_Something is going to happen – right here,_ Mycroft's voice whispered in his ear. _Could be any second. You have control of the room._

Mrs Hudson and Lestrade exchanged worried glances, and Elspeth watched her father closely, holding her champagne glass by its stem. She could tell when he was struggling to concentrate, when his mind was working frantically.

Sherlock shook his head a little. "Ah, yes. Raising glasses and standing up. Very good. Thank you." _Don't lose it._ "And down again," Sherlock said.

The guests murmured amongst themselves, sitting down, and Sherlock put his glass down. He glanced towards Elspeth momentarily. She gazed back at him with wide eyes, frowning slightly.

"Ladies and gentlemen, people tell you not to milk a good speech – get off early, leave 'em laughing. Wise advice I'll certainly try to bear in mind. But for now –" putting his hand on the table, Sherlock shocked everyone by suddenly jumping over it, landing agilely on his feet on the other side. "– part two. Part two is more action-based. I'm going to . . . walk around, shake things up a bit." Sherlock started to pace, walking down the aisle between the tables. "Who'd go to a wedding? That's the question. Who would bother to go to any lengths to get themselves to a wedding? Well, _everyone_. Weddings are _great_! Love a wedding."

Mary leaned over to John. "What's he doing?" she asked him quietly.

"Something's wrong," John murmured, then looked across the table at Elspeth. Sensing eyes on her, she looked back at him, blinking several times before giving him a miniscule shrug. They could both tell that something was wrong with Sherlock.

"And John's great, too! Haven't said that enough. Barely scratched the surface. I could go on all night about the depth and complexity of his . . . jumpers . . . and he can cook. Does . . . a . . . thing . . . thing with peas." Mary and John exchanged puzzled glances. Sherlock struggled to concentrate on talking while he peered at each male guest – any one of them could be the Mayfly Man. ". . . once," he added. "Might not be peas. Might not be him. But he's got a great singing voice . . . or _somebody _does." He sighed with frustration. "Too many, too many, too many, too _many_!"

Sherlock grimaced angrily, searching for the Mayfly Man overwhelming him. He stopped, took a deep breath, and looked across the hall at Elspeth. He calmed down slightly.

"Sorry. Too many jokes about John! Now, er – where was I? Ah, yes. Speech!" Sherlock cried suddenly, grinning. "Speech. Let's talk about _murder_."

John sighed, lowering his head, while Mary frowned. Elspeth sank back in her seat a little.

"Sorry, did I say 'murder'? I meant to say 'marriage' – but, you know, they're quite similar procedures when you think about it. The participants tend to know each other, and it's over when one of them is _dead_."

John shut his eyes, Elspeth feeling a surge of sympathy for him – it was his _wedding day_, the one day that should've been normal for him.

"In fairness, murder is a lot quicker, though. Janine!" At the mention of her name, Janine looked up, wide eyed and nervous. "What about this one? Acceptably hot?" he gestured towards a male guest. "More importantly, his girlfriend's wearing brand-new uncomfortable underwear and hasn't bothered to pick this thread off the top of his jacket or point out the grease smudge on the back of his neck. Currently, he's going home alone." While he spoke, Sherlock rapidly typed on his thumb with his thumb behind his back. "Also, he's a comics and sci-fi geek. They're always tremendously grateful – really put the hours in."

"Oh my God," Elspeth whispered, shutting her eyes as her cheeks burned with mortification. Hearing her father talk about sex . . . it made her feel nauseous. When she opened her eyes again, she saw Todd sitting at his table. He gave her a sympathetic smile, then looked at Sherlock.

"Geoff, the gents." Sherlock turned to Lestrade, jerking his head towards the door. "The loos, now, please."

"It's _Greg_."

"The loos, please," Sherlock insisted when Lestrade's voice beeped a text alert. "It's your _turn_."

Lestrade looked at the text – **Lock this place down. **"Yeah, actually, now you mention it . . ."

"Sherlock, any chance of a – an end date for this speech? Got to cut the cake," John said while Lestrade left the room. Sherlock smiled widely.

"Oh! Ladies and gentlemen, can't stand it when _I_ finally get the chance to speak for once, Vatican Cameos." He said the last two words casually, his eyes flickering between John, who straightened up, and Elspeth, who stared back at him. Her eyes lit up with understanding then.

"Battle stations," John told Mary quietly when she asked what Sherlock meant. "Someone's going to die."

Sherlock looked at all the guests. _Narrow it down,_ Mycroft's voice said. _Narrow it down. Narrow. It. Down. _With a sudden cry out annoyance and outrage, Sherlock slapped himself on both cheeks, then whirled around and pointed at various guests. "Not you," he repeated several times. When he calmed down, Sherlock looked at John. "_You_. It's you. John Watson."

John stood up as Sherlock strode towards the table. "What do I do?"

"Well, you've already done it. Don't solve the murder. Save the life," Sherlock said with such intensity that John blinked, gazing back at his friend. Taking in a deep breath, Sherlock whirled around to face the guests again, grinning manically. "Sorry. Off-piste a bit. Back now. Phew! Let's play a game." Clasping his hands together, Sherlock lowered his head and raised his eyes, staring at everyone in the room. "Let's play _murder_."

John sat back down again and Sherlock prowled forwards, his eyes flickering about the room.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said with a disapproving tone.

"Imagine someone's going to get murdered at a wedding. Who exactly would you pick?"

"I think _you're_ a popular choice at the moment, dear," Mrs Hudson piped up, which made Elspeth giggle despite the intensity of the situation.

"If someone could move Mrs Hudson's glass just slightly out of reach, that would be _lovely_," Sherlock said. "More importantly, who could you_ only_ kill at a wedding?" He turned back and looked at all of the guests. Any one of them could be a target. "Most people you can kill _any_ old place. As a mental exercise, I've _often_ planned the murder of friends and colleagues."

Elspeth narrowed her eyes slightly, watching Sherlock turn around again and gesture towards John. She felt Janine shoot a worried glance in her direction but ignored the eyes burning into the side of her head. Sherlock had never mentioned planning murders before . . . she started to feel worried.

"Now John I'd poison," Sherlock announced. Mary looked nervously at John. "Sloppy eater – dead easy. I've given him chemicals and compounds – that way, he's never even noticed. He missed a whole Wednesday once, didn't have a clue."

Indignant, John spluttered and turned to Elspeth for confirmation. She glanced back at him guiltily – she had tried to dissuade Sherlock from the idea but he was adamant . . . the results were quite amusing though.

"Great," John muttered. "Just great."

"Lestrade's so easy to kill, it's a miracle no one's succumbed to the temptation. I've got a pair of keys to my brother's house – I could easily break in there and _asphyxiate_ him." Sherlock made a strange gesture with his hands, then seemed to realise he had gone too far. ". . . if – if the whim arose."

He didn't say so, but he had once thought about Elspeth's murder. Shooting, a bullet to the head. It would be quick, simple, _easy._ There would be some ugly sobbing, a loud bang, and then it would be over. Sherlock looked over his shoulder at his daughter. She was making eye contact with Todd again across the room, her eyes flickering towards Sherlock when she realised that he was gazing at her. Blushing, Elspeth started back at him.

"He's pissed, isn't he?" Tom whispered to Molly. Without even looking round at him, Molly picked up the plastic fork on the table and stabbed it into the back of his hand. "_Ow!" _

"So, once again, who could you only kill _here_?" Sherlock asked. He looked around the room, facing the guests, and silently eliminated guests that he was certain weren't the targets. "Clearly it's a rare opportunity, so it's someone who doesn't get out much. Someone for whom a planned social encounter known about months in advance is an exception. Has to be a unique opportunity. And since killing someone in public is difficult, killing them in private isn't an option. Someone who lives in an inaccessible or unknown location, then."

Sherlock paused, his eyes sweeping over the room once more. Most of the guests had been eliminated, leaving one.

"Someone private, perhaps, obsessed with personal security." Sherlock looked at Major Sholto. "Possibly someone under threat." As if sensing eyes on him, Sholto stared back at Sherlock. "Ooh! A recluse, small household staff," Sherlock continued, trying to act nonchalant as he picked up a name card and took a pen from his pocket. "High turnover for additional security." He walked over to Sholto, casually dropping the name card down on the table before walking away. "Probably all signed confidentiality agreements."

Finally, Sherlock paused and looked around the room.

"There is another question that remains, however – a big one, a _huge_ one: how would you do it? How would you kill someone in public?" he asked.

Silently, Sholto picked up the name card, unfolded it and read the two words Sherlock had scrawled:

**IT'S YOU.**

* * *

Thank you GeorgyannWayson, xxxMadameMysteryxx, EICochrane, Guest, Bookworm45669, Adrillian1497, Daisytaylor23497, Ms Moonshoes Potter, SparrowLilies, Meg, WerewolfHybrid31, Tayla, bellechat, ElizabethCullen08, Darcy, one more off key anthem, PutThatInYourBlog, Kayla, Starcrier and Aimee for reviewing!

Say I were to write an AU for Moriarty and Ellie in which their roles are switched (Jim being the world's only consulting detective and Elspeth Holmes being a consulting criminal) would be people be interested . . .? Or would you prefer a different sort of AU? Ideas are welcome and greatly appreciated!


	13. Chapter 13

_**13.**_

Sholto gazed at the card silently, then folded it again and put it down. Elspeth's eyes focused on him momentarily, watching him, following his movements. She frowned. What had Sherlock written on that card?

"There has to be a way. This has been planned," Sherlock said.

"Mr Holmes!" Archie said excitedly, jumping up from his chair and bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Mr Holmes!"

"Oh, hello again, Archie," Sherlock said, turning to face him. He bend forwards so he was down to Archie's level. "What's _your_ theory? Get this right and there's a headless nun in it for you."

"The invisible man could do it."

Sherlock blinked. "The who, the what, the why, the when, the where?" he asked quickly. In that moment, Archie reminded him very much of Elspeth when she was young – enthusiastic, but coming up with whimsical theories that didn't quite make sense.

"The invisible man with the invisible knife. The one who tried to kill the Guardsman."

Suddenly, everything became clear. Sherlock straightened up, his eyes wide.

Silently, Sholto got to his feet and picked up his ceremonial sword, which was propped against the window, then turned to walk out of the room. Elspeth continued to watch him, her head tilted to the side curiously, and Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment.

"Oh, not just planned. Planned and rehearsed," Sherlock said softly, to himself. Turning around, he watched Sholto leave the room. He whirled around, swiped a champagne glass from someone and strode back to the top table. "Ladies and gentlemen, there will now be a short interlude," he announced. "The bride and groom!"

Slowly, uncertainly, the guests stood and raised their glasses. "The bride and groom," they echoed.

Sherlock turned around, leaning close to John. "Major Sholto's going to be murdered. I don't know how or by whom, but it's going to happen," he said quietly. Without waiting for a response, he then turned around and starting making his way through the crowd. Elspeth jumped to her feet, smiled apologetically at the guests, and chased after her father.

John quickly faced Mary, pulling her in for a kiss. "Stay here," he ordered.

"Please be careful," she said quietly. John nodded, following Sherlock and Elspeth. Mary hesitated for a second, then jumped up and raced after them. There was no way she was going to miss this.

"Where is he?" Elspeth asked Sherlock, who pressed his fingertips to his head and tried to concentrate while John paced impatiently. "Which room is he in?"

"I can't remember," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, annoyed.

"_How_ can you not remember which room?" John demanded. "You remember everything."

"I have to delete _something_!"

"Two – oh – seven," Mary said, running up the stairs between them with her skirt in one hand so she wouldn't trip over it. Grabbing Elspeth by the hand, Sherlock quickly overtook Mary with John close behind. When they reached the second floor, Sherlock dropped Elspeth's hand and raced to room 207, knocking on the door and trying to open it. The door was locked.

"Major Sholto? Major Sholto!" Sherlock shouted, then slammed his right hand repeatedly on the door. "_Major Sholto_!"

"If someone's about to make an attempt on my life, it won't be the first time. I'm ready," Sholto called back from the other side of the door. Sherlock stepped to the side as John walked forwards.

"Major, let us in," John said.

"Kick the door down," Mary said to him.

Sholto heard her. "I really wouldn't. I have a gun in my hand and a lifetime of unfortunate reflexes."

Desperate, Sherlock walked closer to the door. "You're not safe in there. Whoever's after you, we know that a locked room doesn't stop him."

"The invisible man with the invisible knife," Sholto said with a hint of bitterness in his voice, remembering what Archie had said. Sherlock shut his eyes, leaning his head against the door. Elspeth bit her lip worriedly.

"I don't know how he does it, so I can't stop him, and that means he'll do it again."

"Solve it then," Sholto said sternly. Sherlock straightened up, blinked, and stammered slightly as he asked Sholto what he meant. "You're the famous Mr Holmes. Solve the case. On you go. Tell me how he did it and I'll open the door."

"_Please_, this is no time for games. Just let us in! You're in danger!" John cried desperately.

"So are you, so long as you're here." Sherlock started to pace back and forth, Elspeth's eyes following his movements as she slumped helplessly against the wall. "Please, leave me. Despite my reputation, I _really_ don't approve of collateral damage."

"Solve it," Mary said to Sherlock. He turned to her, an eyebrow raised questioningly. "Solve it, and he'll open the door, like he said."

"If I couldn't solve it before, how can I solve it _now_?" Sherlock demanded.

"It _matters_ now," Elspeth hissed, straightening up.

"She's right," John agreed, ignoring the incredulous look Sherlock gave him. "You are _not_ a puzzle-solver – you never have been. You're a drama queen." Sherlock's mouth dropped and he continued to stare at John, whose voice rose as he spoke. "Now, there is a man in there about to die. 'The game is on' – _solve _it."

Sherlock glowered at John and Elspeth tried not to smile at her father being told off by John. His mind focused carefully on the case, thinking about Sholto's uniform, the belt in particular. He then recalled the standing with Janine, watching the waiter carefully remove the skewer from the joint of beef. His eyes, which he had squeezed shut with thought, snapped open, and Sherlock whirled around to kiss Elspeth on the forehead. She grinned up at him.

"You're a drama queen too," Sherlock told John.

"Yeah, you are," Mary agreed with a small smile, which made John frown.

"Major Sholto, no one's coming to kill you. I'm afraid you've already been killed several hours ago," Sherlock said loudly, approaching the door. "Don't take off your belt."

"My belt?" Sholto repeated.

Sherlock turned around, talking to John, Mary and Elspeth. "His belt, yes. Bainbridge was stabbed hours before we even saw him, but it was through his belt," he said. "_Tight_ belt, worn high on the waist. Very easy to push a small blade through the fabric and you wouldn't even feel it."

John nodded, his eyes lighting up with understanding. "The – the belt would bind the flesh together when it was tied tight, and when you took it off . . ."

"Delayed action stabbing. All the time in the world to create an alibi," Sherlock finished. He tried the door handle again. "Major Sholto?"

"So – I was to be killed by my uniform. How appropriate," Sholto said thoughtfully. Elspeth felt sympathetic for him, pushing past Sherlock so she could speak.

"He solved it, Major," she said. "You have to open the door now. A deal is a deal."

"I'm not even supposed to _have_ this anymore. They gave me special dispensation to keep it. I couldn't imagine life out of this uniform. I suppose – given the circumstances – I don't _have_ to." Sholto paused for a moment. "When so many want you dead, it hardly seems good manners to argue."

"Whatever you're doing in there, James, _stop it, right now_. I will kick this door down," John threatened.

"Mr Holmes, you and I are similar, I think," Sholto said from inside his room.

"Yes, I think we are."

"There's a proper time to die, isn't there?"

"Of _course_ there is."

"And one should embrace it when it comes – like a soldier," Sholto said, his voice lowering slightly. Elspeth closed her eyes, wondering what Sholto was doing. She remembered when she thought Sherlock was dead, when she walked out in front of a car with every intention of letting it hit her . . . she hoped Sholto would let them help him. She really did.

"Of _course_ one should, but not at John's _wedding_," Sherlock said. "We wouldn't do that, would we – you and me? We would _never _do that to John Watson."

Sherlock stepped away from the door and John walked closer, listening for any sound from the room as a long pause followed. "I'm going to break it down," John announced.

"You don't have to," Elspeth said quietly.

Before John could answer, the door opened and Sholto glanced briefly at Sherlock. He lowered his eyes for a second, then turned to John.

"I believe I am in need of medical attention."

John let out a sigh of relief. "I believe I am your doctor."

Elspeth waited outside when John and Sherlock strode into Sholto's room, and Mary let her dress fall to the ground as she moved closer to Elspeth.

"You alright?" she asked softly.

Nodding, Elspeth bit down on her bottom lip. "I just . . . I remember feeling like that," she said quietly. She raised her eyes to meet Mary's. "I know what it's like to be so low that you just . . . _can't_ go on."

Silently, Mary reached out and squeezed Elspeth's shoulder. She'd been there. She and John both remembered being with Elspeth when she was low. There had been sleepless nights for all them when she first went to live with them, and there had been one incident that would always stick in Mary's mind; the bathroom door had been ajar and she'd walked in, thinking it was empty, only to find Elspeth holding a bottle of sleeping pills, gazing at them with a blank look in her eyes.

She hadn't taken any, but what scared Mary and John the most was that Elspeth wasn't even _thinking _about it. She'd picked them up mechanically, like she was on autopilot.

John and Mary had told Sherlock. Elspeth didn't know that Sherlock knew, and he pretended that he didn't. The three of them made a solemn promise, however, to always keep a close eye on Elspeth.

* * *

"One, two three," Sherlock counted. "One, two three. Pretty good." He and Janine had sneaked off together, to the empty foyer of the reception, so he could teach her how to dance properly. "Just . . ." they stopped dancing, and Sherlock carefully released Janine. "hold your nerve on your turning."

"Why do we have to rehearse?"

"Because we are about to dance together in public, and _your_ skills are appalling!"

Janine laughed, realising that Sherlock was only teasing her. Well, half teasing. She wasn't _that_ bad, he supposed. "Well, you're a good teacher," she complimented. "And you're a brilliant dancer."

Sherlock leaned close to her. "I'll let you in on something, Janine," he said quietly.

"Go on then," she whispered, grinning from ear to ear.

"I _love_ dancing. I've _always_ loved it."

"Seriously?"

"Watch out," he warned, looking around to make sure nobody else would see him before suddenly turning in a pirouette. It left him slightly breathless, a wide grin starting to spread across his face before he supressed it. "Never really comes up in crime work but, um, you know, I live in hope of the right case."

Janine sighed wistfully. "I wish you weren't . . ." her voice trailed off. Sherlock looked at her. "Whatever it is you are."

"Well, _glad_ to see you've pulled, Sherlock, what with murderers running riot at my wedding," John called, striding into the foyer towards them. He smiled at Janine and clapped Sherlock on the back.

"_One_ murder – one _nearly_ murderer. Loves to exaggerate," Sherlock said to Janine. "You should try living with him."

The door opened. "Got him for you," Lestrade announced as he joined the three, the photographer walking in close behind.

"Ah, the photographer. Excellent!" Sherlock thanked Lestrade, then walked over to the photographer and pointed at the camera. "May I have a look at your camera?"

"Er –" the photographer hesitantly held the camera closer to himself, but then handed it to Sherlock. "What's this about? I was halfway home!"

"You should have driven faster," Sherlock told him. He flicked through the photos, smiling and making the occasional comment before handing it to Lestrade.

"Is the murderer in these photographs?" John demanded.

"It's not what's_ in_ the photographs, it's what's _not_ in them – not in _any_ of them."

John sighed. "Sherlock, the showing off thing – we've discussed it before," he said pointedly.

"There is always a man at a wedding who is not in any photograph but can go anywhere, and even carry an equipment bag around with him if he likes, and you never even see his face. You only ever see –" Sherlock rapidly slapped one cuff of a pair of handcuffs around the photographer's wrist and the other cuff around the frame on a nearby birdcage luggage trolley. "– the camera."

"What are you doing? What _is_ this?" the photographer demanded, tugging at the handcuffs.

"Jonathan Small, today's substitute wedding photographer – known to us as the Mayfly Man. His brother was one of the raw recruits killed in that incursion. Jonny sought revenge on Sholto, worked his way through Sholto's staff, found what he needed an invitation to a wedding – the one time Sholto would have to be out in public. So, he made his plan, and rehearsed the murder, making sure of every last detail."

Small looked back at Sherlock calmly, like he wasn't bothered. John shook his head in disgust, and Janine gazed at Sherlock with a mixture of amazement and admiration.

"Brilliant, ruthless, almost certainly a monomaniac – though, in fairness, his photographs _are_ actually quite good," Sherlock continued. He threw his phone to Lestrade. "Everything you need's on that. You probably ought to . . . arrest him or something."

At that moment, the front door suddenly burst open again and Elspeth stumbled inside, her hand holding Todd's. Both of them were bright eyed, flushed and giggling.

"Oh!" Elspeth said, laughing even more when she saw the tense situation. "Sorry, are we interrupting something?" she grinned widely at Sherlock, letting go of Todd's hand and looping her arm through his, leaning against him as they both continued to laugh. The gleam in Sherlock's eyes was murderous, and even John looked a bit indignant when he realised what Todd and Elspeth had been doing.

Mary walked past, peering in through the open doorway, and when she spotted John, she hurried into the foyer. Janine moved a bit closer to Sherlock, leaning towards him.

"Do you _always_ carry handcuffs?" she asked him without looking at him, momentarily distracting Sherlock from the furious glare he was directing at Todd.

"Down, girl."

Joining them, Mary grabbed John's hand. "Come on, quick!" she urged, stopping when she saw Small. The photographer had his gaze fixed on Sherlock. It hadn't wavered once.

"It's not _me_ you should be arresting, Mr Holmes."

"Oh,_ I_ don't do the arresting. I just farm that out."

"Sholto – _he's_ the killer, not me," Small insisted. Elspeth's eyes darted between Small and Sherlock, feeling slightly confused. "I should have killed him quicker." Small shook his head. "I shouldn't have tried to be clever."

"You should have driven faster," Sherlock said softly.

* * *

Elspeth held Todd's hand as they watched John and Mary waltz in the centre of the room, Sherlock standing on a low stage at the end of the room and playing his violin. She smiled to herself, letting herself lean against Todd slightly. She felt incredible, like she could laugh and dance and sing at the top of her voice, and all because she'd kissed a boy at a wedding. She didn't know if she and Todd were serious, or if it was just a one night romance, but she didn't care. She was happy.

Dipping Mary, John kissed his wife and held her close. She laughed happily and they kissed again, their noses bumping gently. He loved her so much.

"Ladies and gentlemen, just – er – one last thing before the evening begins properly. Apologies for earlier. A crisis arose and was dealt with," Sherlock announced in the microphone. "More importantly, however, today we saw two people make vows. I've never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again. So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will _always_ be there, always, for all three of you."

John frowned, and Sherlock realised his mistake a second later. "I'm sorry, I mean, I mean two of you. All _two_ of you. _Both_ of you, in fact. I've just miscounted. Anyway, it's time for dancing. Play the music again, please, thank you."

Urging everyone to dance, Sherlock stepped down from the stage, joining John and Mary. Elspeth murmured a quick excuse to Todd, let go of his hand and took a step towards the three. As an afterthought, she turned around and kissed Todd again before darting through the crowd.

"Mary, I think you should do a pregnancy test," Sherlock said when Elspeth appeared at his side, and she blinked several times. Mary grinned delightedly. "W. . . th . . .the statistics for the first trimester are –"

"Shut up," John said in a low voice. "Just . . . shut up. How did _he_ notice before me? I'm a bloody doctor."

"It's your day off."

"It's _your_ day off!"

"Stop – stop panicking," Sherlock told John.

"I'm pregnant – _I'm_ panicking!" Mary announced.

"No, no, stop panicking," Elspeth told them all, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that Mary was _pregnant._ "You two . . . you're going to be amazing parents, ok? You've had so much practise with me and I'm not even a baby, so stop panicking."

John stared at her, then at Sherlock, and a wide grin spread across his face as he reached up and grasped his friend's shoulder. John laughed, squeezing Sherlock on the shoulder, and kissed the top of Elspeth's head before turning to Mary and kissing her as well. Mary beamed back at him with delight, her hand resting on her still flat stomach.

"Dance," Sherlock said abruptly when the pause became slightly awkward. "All of you, now, go dance. We can't just stand here. People will wonder what we're talking about."

"And what about you?" Mary asked Sherlock, reaching out and touching his arm.

"You three can't dance together," Elspeth teased. "There _are_ limits." Sherlock nodded in agreement, and Mary smiled back rather tearfully, guiding one of John's hands to her waist as she took the other in hers.

"Don't worry, Mary, I _have_ been tutoring him," Sherlock promised.

John laughed. "He _did_, you know. Baker Street, behind closed curtains. Mrs Hudson came in one time. Don't know how _those_ rumours started!"

Mary and John danced into the crowd, and Elspeth was quickly whisked away by Todd as he grasped her by the hand, leaving Sherlock standing alone. He looked down, trying not to meet anyone's eyes, but then a thought sprung to his mind and he lifted his head, searching the crowd intently. Janine was dancing some distance away, his buttonhole flower tucked into the front of her dress – he had thrown it to her earlier – and when he caught her eye, she grinned, pointing towards the man she was dancing with.

Slowly, Sherlock looked over his shoulder; Elspeth and Todd seemed to be doing a rather enthusiastic waltz, his arms holding her waist as she laughed hysterically, both of them pausing briefly to kiss.

Sherlock turned towards the stage. He folded the handwritten music he had played for John and Mary, tucking it into an envelope addressed to them. He was certain they would find it. He walked slowly through the guests, eyes spotting couples everywhere – John and Mary, Molly and Tom, Elspeth and Todd. Even Mrs Hudson was dancing with Mr Chatterjee, giggling hysterically. She'd obviously had too much to drink.

Mrs Hudson's words echoed in his mind – "_who leaves a wedding early? So sad._"

No one seemed to notice Sherlock Holmes leave John's wedding early, and if they did, no one tried to stop him.

* * *

Thank you GeorgyannWayson, ArabellaBlack25, Bookworm45669, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, tardislover1, Hannah Skywalker - Jedi Padawan, EICochrane, zare downey okumura, nakari ash, Adrillian1497, AColorfulMind, Ms Moonshoes Potter, iwanttobeaneverdeen, bellechat, one more off key anthem, TheTenthDoctorIsMyGuardian, ElizabethCullen08 and Darcy for reviewing!

Oh my, feels galore.

I have nearly finished an AU oneshot, but it's not the one I mentioned in the last chapter . . . it's actually one I mentioned on Tumblr a while ago; instead of Sherlock, Ellie goes to the roof and confronts Moriarty. Maybe when it's finished, I'll post it, if anyone is interested in that one? And I have finally finished the first chapter of Paper Moons and Silly String (the prequel) so it hopefully shouldn't be long before it's posted!


	14. Chapter 14

_**14.**_

"Mr Magnussen, please state your full name for the record."

"Charles Augustus Magnussen."

"Mr Magnussen, how would you describe your influence over the Prime Minister?" Lady Elizabeth Smallwood asked, sitting in a table some distance away and facing Magnussen. Without his glasses on, her form was slightly blurred and unclear.

"The _British_ Prime Minister?" Magnussen clarified facetiously. Lady Smallwood stiffened.

"_Any_ of the British Prime Ministers you have known."

"I never had the slightest influence over any of them," Magnussen answered flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Why would I?"

Lady Smallwood consulted the report in front of her. "I notice you've had . . . seven meetings at Downing Street this year. Why?"

"Because I was invited."

"Can you recall the subjects under discussion?"

"Not without being more indiscreet than I believe is appropriate," Magnussen responded. A man, Garvie, to the right of Lady Smallwood leaned forwards to the microphone in front of him.

"Do you think it right that a newspaper proprietor, a private individual and, in fact, a foreign national should have such regular access to our Prime Minister?"

While he spoke, Magnussen put his glasses on and turned to him – _John Garvie, MP Rockwell South, Adulterer (see file), reformed alcoholic, porn preference: normal, finances: 41% debt (see file), status unimportant. Pressure point – _"I don't think it's wrong that a private individual should accept an invitation," Magnussen answered calmly. _Pressure point: disabled daughter (see file)_. "However, you have my sincere apologies for being foreign."

"That's not what I meant. That is not in_ any_ way –"

Lady Smallwood spoke over Garvie. "Mr Magnussen, can you recall an occasion when your remarks could have influenced government policy or the Prime Minister's thinking in any way?"

Magnussen turned his gaze on her – _Lady Elizabeth Smallwood, married, solvent, former gymnast, porn preference: none, vices: none. Pressure point – _he took his glasses off, reaching for a small cloth on the table in front of him. "No," he said shortly.

"Are you sure?"

He was silent as he cleaned his glasses, putting them back on and looking towards Lady Smallwood once more. _Pressure point: husband. _"I have an excellent memory."

* * *

"May I join you?"

Sitting at the table with her paperwork in front of her, Lady Smallwood lowered her pen and looked at Magnussen. "I don't think it's appropriate," she said, a subtle hint. She despised Magnussen. Every time he turned that cold, chilling gaze on her, a shiver ran down her spine.

"It isn't," he agreed, rolling a wheeled chair to her side of the table and sitting next to her.

"Mr Magnussen, outside the enquiry we can have no contact, no communication at all," Lady Smallwood told him. When Magnussen reached out and grasped her hand, she was careful to keep her composure, trying not to react. "Please don't do that."

Magnussen didn't take his hand away. "In 1982 your husband corresponded with Helen Catherine Driscoll."

"That was before I knew him."

"The letters were lively, loving – some would say explicit – and currently in my possession."

Lady Smallwood ignored him. "Will you please move your hand?" she requested politely.

"I long, my darling, to know the touch of your . . . " Magnussen paused in his narration of one of the letters, watching Lady Smallwood. She had stiffened slightly. She'd read the letters. "_Body_."

"I know what was in the letters."

"She was fifteen."

"She looked older," Lady Smallwood said shortly.

"Oh, she looked _delicious_," Magnussen said softly. "We have photographs, too – the ones she sent him." He suddenly smacked his lips together, the noise echoing in the otherwise silent room. "Yum yum."

Dear God, he was absolutely _vile_. Lady Smallwood glared at him. "He was unaware of her age. He met her only once before the letters began. When he discovered the truth, he stopped immediately. Those are the facts."

"Facts are for history books. I work in news."

"Your hand is sweating," Lady Smallwood told him. It was a poor attempt at an insult but she was at her wit's end, desperate to get away from him.

"Always, I'm afraid. I have a condition," Magnussen replied calmly. Thoughtfully, almost.

"It's disgusting," Lady Smallwood spat. He didn't look perturbed. His lips twitched into the smallest of smiles.

"Ah, I'm used to it." He stroked his finger across the top of her hand. "The whole world is wet to my touch."

"I will call someone. I will have you removed." Lady Smallwood tried to pull away. Magnussen clamped his hands around her hand.

"What is that?" he asked her, gently lifting her hand and turning it, his fingers closing around it again as he raised her wrist towards his face. "Claire de la Lune? A bit young for you, isn't it?" Lady Smallwood pulled her hand free and flailed towards him, as if to strike Magnussen, but he seized her arm, holding her still. "You want to hit me now? _Could_ you, still? You're an old lady now. Perhaps you should settle for calling someone." She tugged her hand away. "Well? Go on." Lady Smallwood didn't move, looking away from him. "No? Because now there are consequences. I have the letters and therefore I have you."

"This is blackmail," Lady Smallwood hissed.

"Of course it isn't blackmail. This is . . . ownership."

She glared at him. "You do not own me."

Magnussen's eyes flickered towards the attendant as he entered the room, but ignored him. Instead, he half rose, leaned towards Lady Smallwood and stuck his tongue out, running the tip of it up the side of her face. She cringed, recoiling. Magnussen sat back down.

"Claire de la Lune," he said. Picking up a napkin, he rubbed it against his tongue. "It never tastes like it smells, does it? Lady Smallwood didn't respond. Magnussen looked at her a final time, then dropped the napkin and walked away. "Lady Smallwood's bill is on me. See to it."

The door shut behind him, and Lady Smallwood lowered her head as she let out a shuddering breath.

* * *

Mary's friend Kate turned up on their doorstep in the early morning again, crying and telling John that her son Isaac – "the drugs one, yeah?" – had gone missing again. There was a house that he and his friends went to apparently, and after a month of not hearing from or seeing Sherlock, John was almost thankful for the distraction.

"What is that?" Mary asked, laughing hysterically when she saw John tuck something into the top if his jeans.

"It's a tyre lever."

"_Why_?"

"'Cause there were loads of smackheads in there, and one of them might need help with a tyre," John said sarcastically. Mary gave him a _look_. "If there's any trouble, just go. I'll be fine." He turned and started to stride towards the house.

"Er – John, John, John," Mary called after him, getting out of the car and looking at him over the roof. She grinned at him. "It is a _tiny_ bit sexy."

John blinked. "Yeah, I know," he said nonchalantly. He couldn't help but grin as he turned away though, walking with slightly more spring in his step. The front door of the house had a large sign on the front – **PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT.** John snorted. It obviously didn't keep out the druggies.

A young man opened the door when John hit his fist against it, and the first thing John noticed was that he wasn't much older than Elspeth. He was dirty and scruffy, obviously hadn't shaved for a few days, and gave John a narrow eyed, suspicious glare.

"What d'you want?" Ignoring him, John barged his way into the house. "Naah, naah, you can't come in 'ere!" the young man protested unhappily.

"I'm looking for a friend," John told him, walking down the corridor and peering into the rooms. "A very specific friend – I'm not just browsing."

"You've gotta go. No-one's allowed 'ere."

John continued to ignore the young man, then turned around to face him. "Isaac Whitney. You seen him?" he asked. The hooded man responded by taking a flick knife from his pocket, snapping the blade open and holding it towards John. "I'm asking you if you've seen Isaac Whitney, and now you're showing me a knife. Is it a clue?" the young man gestured towards the door. John frowned. "Are you doing a mime?"

"Go," the young man insisted. "Or I'll cut you."

"Ooh, not from there. Let me help." John took several steps forwards and stopped so close to the boy that if he wanted to, he could've stabbed John. "Now concentrate. Isaac Whitney," he said in a slow, precise manner.

"Ok, you asked for it." Before the boy could even think about moving, John lashed out with his left hand, seizing the young man's right arm and slamming his other hand into it. He then wrapped his right hand around the front of the young man's neck, slammed him against the wall, and swept his legs out from underneath him. The boy slumped onto the floor, groaning, his knife on the ground next to him.

"Right," John said. He took in a deep breath and picked up the flick knife, squatting by the young man. "Are you concentrating yet?"

"You broke my arm!" the hooded boy wailed.

"No, I sprained it," John corrected impatiently.

"It feels squishy! Is it supposed to feel squishy? Feel that." He held his arm out towards John, who did as the young man requested. It was a sprain.

"Yeah, it's a sprain. I'm a doctor – I know how to sprain people. Now _where_ is Isaac Whitney?"

"I don't know!" John gave the young man a look. ". . . maybe upstairs."

"There you go, wasn't that easy?" John gave the young man a sarcastic smile, patting him on the leg and standing up to walk up the stairs.

"No. It's really sore. You're mental, you are," the young man grumbled.

John pocketed the flick knife. "No. Just used to a better class of criminal."

He walked upstairs and into the large room at the top, some sort of attic. There were mattresses around the edge of the room, and several people were sitting or lying on them, all of them stoned. The hazy scent of drugs lingered in the air. John breathed shallowly as he slowly walked across the room.

"Isaac? Isaac Whitney?" he asked, walking over to two people lying side by side on a mattress. "Isaac?" one of the boys tiredly raised a hand, gazing up at John with unfocused eyes as the doctor kneeled down beside him. "Hello, mate," John said softly. "Sit up for me? Sit up."

He helped Isaac sit up, peeling one of his eyelids back. Isaac's eyes rolled uncontrollably as he tried to focus on John.

"Doctor Watson?"

John lifted Isaac's other eyelid. "Yep."

"Where am I?"

"The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the Earth. Look at me."

Isaac looked at John, still struggling to concentrate. "Have you come for me?" he asked wearily.

John's expression was incredulous. "Do you think I know a lot of people here?!" he retorted, making Isaac laugh hazily.

"_Ugh_," the person on the mattress next to Isaac's, behind John, moaned as they rolled over and propped themselves up on their elbow. "Could you quit making so much noise?" a familiar voice asked irritably. John turned around slowly.

"_Ellie_," he said, staring at her. He almost didn't recognise her; she was wearing tracksuit bottoms he didn't even know she owned, a dirty hoodie that had seen better days and an old jacket over the top of that. Her hair was dirty and matted, scraped back into a ponytail, and her eyes were red, bloodshot. Her pupils were big. Too big.

"Oh, hi John," Elspeth said with a dopey grin. She was completely out of it. "Are you here for me as well?"

John stared back at her, his mouth open. He narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe this," he muttered. "Hey Isaac, can you stand?"

"Yeah," Isaac said groggily.

"Ok, right – Mary's outside in the car, you go ahead and get in. We'll catch up with you." John helped Isaac to his feet and guided him down the stairs to make sure the young boy didn't hurt himself, then strode back to where Elspeth was lying. "Get up," he ordered.

Elspeth looked at up at him lazily. She blinked. ". . . _what_?"

"Get up right now," John repeated loudly, several people nearby stirring. Elspeth sat up slowly. Rolling his eyes, John reached down, grabbed Elspeth by the arm and hauled her to her feet. "Come on, we're going."

"But _John_," Elspeth moaned. She stumbled slightly as John manhandled her towards the steps. "Woah, slow down!" Elspeth laughed hysterically for no apparent reason. John's lips were pressed together as he tugged her down the corridor towards the fire escape.

"Do you have _any_ idea how dangerous this was?" John demanded. Elspeth rolled her eyes and yanked her arm from his grip, pushing the fire escape door open with such force that it went crashing down the fire escape. It had only been nailed on.

"For God's sake, John, I haven't _taken_ anything," she insisted.

John followed her down the fire escape. "Do you really think I'm some sort of idiot, Elspeth? I can see it in your eyes – I can smell it on your bloody clothes!"

"I'm . . . I'm _working_," Elspeth told him. Halfway down the fire escape, she clambered under the railing and onto the wall beside it. She wobbled slightly. John quickly lunged forwards, grabbing her arm before she could fall. "_Gerrof_," she grumbled.

"Ellie – Ellie, don't walk away from me!" John shouted when Elspeth slid down from the wall and onto a wheelie bin. He quickly followed her.

"I'm undercover!"

"No you're not," John scoffed.

"Well I'm not _now_!" Elspeth screeched angrily, throwing her arms into the air as she whirled around and glared at John. With Isaac in the back of the car, Mary drove towards the two of them and pulled up, the brakes squealing.

"_In_," she said sternly. "Both of you, _quickly_." Elspeth glowered back at Mary, turning as if she was going to walk away. Mary got out of the car. "Elspeth Holmes, don't you even _think_ about walking away."

Elspeth stopped, looking over her shoulder at Mary. She was silent for a few seconds, debating on whether or not she was going to push her luck by walking away, then climbed into the backseat next to Isaac.

John looked at his wife. "That's a tiny bit sexy," he told her.

Mary grinned back. "I know."

Smiling, John climbed into the passenger seat of the car. His smile dropped when he saw the young hooded man from the house stumble towards the car, cradling his arm. Mary sighed with exasperation.

"Please. Can I come?" the young man pleaded. "I think I've got a broken arm."

"No, go away," Mary said shortly.

"No, let him in," John said, much to his wife's surprise. He opened the car window and leaned out. "Yeah, just get in. It's a sprain."

Elspeth moved into the centre of the rear seat as the young man hurried round the side of the car, sliding in next to her. Mary turned to John, her eyebrows raised.

"Anyone else? I mean, we're taking everybody home, are we?" she asked him sarcastically. John pressed his lips together.

The hooded boy looked round at Elspeth. "Alright, Els?"

"Hey Bill," she said quietly, turning to give him a tired smile. John turned around in his seat, his eyes flickering between the two of them.

"Wait, you _know_ each other?"

"Yeah, John this is Bill, Bill this is John," Elspeth introduced wearily. She looked at Bill's arm, frowned, and looked at John again. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Did you really break my friend's arm?"

"Did I – no, _no_, it's a _sprain_," John spluttered angrily. Mary held up a handkerchief and John snatched it from her, handing it to Elspeth. "Clean your face, it's filthy."

Glowering at him, Elspeth took the handkerchief from him, dabbing at her face uncertainly. Bill murmured something to her and John watched in the rear view mirror as Elspeth handed him the handkerchief, letting him wipe some dirt off her cheek. He said something else, too quiet for John to hear, and Elspeth grimaced, playfully pushing his face away.

"Where first, then?" Mary asked John.

"We're not going home," John said grimly. "We're going to Bart's. I'm calling Molly and Sherlock."

"Why?"

John held his phone up to his ear, turning to look over his shoulder at Elspeth. "Because," he said. "Elspeth Holmes needs to pee in a jar."

* * *

Thank you iwanttobeaneverdeen, Destiny Xavier16, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, GeorgyannWayson, LittleGee, EICochrane, Aimee, Ms Moonshoes Potter, daisytayloragain, Bookworm45669, fmxc17, ArabellaBlack25, tardislover1, Kayla, LoverofWords22, Adrillian1497, ElizabethCullen08, deductions, one more off key anthem, bellechat, ftlouie1, SJBHasADayPass, WerewolfHybrid31 and Guest for reviewing!

Why is Ellie in the drug den? It will be explained!

Yes, I am on tumblr, and both the links are on my profile page is you would like to have a look. And (shameless self promoting) the AU oneshot is posted - The Final Sacrifice! Maybe those of you who haven't could take a look, let me know what you think . . .?


	15. Chapter 15

_**15. **_

Elspeth had never felt so humiliated in her life. Molly had taken the urine sample from her and ran tests on it while Mary bandaged Bill's arm for him. John kept ringing Sherlock, but he wasn't answering. He sighed, put his phone in his pocket, and looked towards Molly as she snapped her gloves off.

"Well?" John asked her. "Is she clean?"

"Clean?" Molly repeated, her voice laced with sarcasm. She rounded on Elspeth, who was leaning against the bench with her arms crossed, and Elspeth couldn't help but recoil slightly as Molly took several intimidating strides forwards. "Elspeth Holmes, I would slap you now if I thought it would knock some common sense into you," Molly said angrily.

"Please don't," Elspeth mumbled. Everyone's eyes were on her – John, Mary, Bill, Isaac, Molly . . . they all watched her. Isaac still looked a bit out of it, vaguely unaware of what was going on, but Mary and John gazed at her with a mixture of anger and disappointment. She struggled to meet their eyes.

"How _dare_ you?" Molly demanded. "How dare you throw everything away and betray the love of your family for some stupid _fix_! Say you're sorry." Elspeth was silent, gazing at Molly sullenly. "Elspeth Holmes, apologise."

"Sorry," Elspeth muttered. She looked down. Molly's engagement ring was gone. Elspeth didn't say anything about it though.

Trying to supress his anger, John took a few steps towards Elspeth. "Look, Ellie, we're not mad at you –" Elspeth rolled her eyes, snorting loudly. "– but you could've _talked_ to us, any of us."

"For God's sake, this is for a _case_," Elspeth insisted.

"A case? What kind of case would need you doing _this_?"

"Why are you cycling to work?" she retorted.

"No," John said angrily, pointing at her. "No, we are not playing this game. Not here, not now."

Elspeth ignored him. "You're very determined, aren't you?" she asked.

"It's the shirt, innit?" Bill agreed, then flinched when Mary moved his arm slightly so she could continue bandaging it. It was only a sprain, but it still ached – John mumbled a quick excuse about Bill probably being hit by some addict looking for a fix. Elspeth gave him a pointed look. "The two creases down the front. It's been recently folded but it's not new," Bill continued.

"Must have dressed in a hurry this morning," Elspeth added. John glared at her. "So _all _your shirts are kept like that."

"'Cause you cycle to work every morning, shower when you get there an' then dress in the clothes you brought with you. You keep your shirts folded, ready to pack," Bill concluded. He and Elspeth exchanged glances, a mixture of admiration and suspicion in their eyes. John continued to glare at them both, annoyed with Elspeth.

"Seriously, Ellie, are you an _idiot_?" he demanded furiously. "For God's sake, you're on antidepressants! Do you have any idea how dangerous that could've been?"

"Look, I got low – I was in the drug den for a reason, but some little arse nicked my pills. I smoked some weed because it made me happy, so _sue me_!" Elspeth yelled back. There were tears in her eyes, and she wiped them away stubbornly. "Now would everyone get off my friggin' back please?"

Molly turned away, her lips pressed together. Mary's expression softened as she left Isaac and Bill, putting her hand on John's arm. "Why don't I take the boys back?" she suggested quietly. "You and Ellie can get a taxi to Baker Street."

John nodded. Mary smiled at Molly, then led the boys outside. Bill stopped by Elspeth. "Don't worry, Els, I'll get you your anti-'pressants back," he promised her. She smiled back sadly.

"Thanks, Bill."

Thanking Molly quietly, John put his hand on Elspeth's shoulder to guide her out of the lab. Elspeth jerked away, threw the door open, and stormed out. He sighed. It was going to be a long journey home.

* * *

"Mycroft's here," Elspeth said when the taxi pulled up outside 221B. She threw John a suspicious glare. "Why is Mycroft here?" Without waiting for an answer, she climbed out of the taxi and stormed to the front door, glaring up at the knocker. It was straight. The knocker was only straight when Mycroft visited because he corrected it, sometimes without even realising. Petulant, Elspeth deliberately pushed the knocker to the side.

John shut the front door behind him as he followed Elspeth up the stairs. He'd called Mycroft. Sherlock wasn't answering his phone and John was desperate. He knew Elspeth wouldn't be pleased when she found out, but there was nothing he could do.

"Ah, Elspeth," Mycroft said when she opened the living room door. "This _is _an interesting development." He looked at Sherlock. "I wasn't aware that drug abuse was genetic."

Elspeth glared at him, then at John. "You phoned him," she accused.

"Course I bloody phoned him," John retorted. "_Someone_ –" he gave Sherlock a pointed look. "– wasn't answering their phone."

Sherlock watched Elspeth closely, silently. His eyes narrowed slightly when he saw the signs of drug abuse; bloodshot eyes, wide pupils, the nervous smile her lips twitched into before she supressed it. "You smell awful," he told her. Elspeth glowered back.

"You can't afford a drug habit now," Mycroft reprimanded.

"I do not have a drug habit," Elspeth said irritably, pushing her way past her father and uncle so she could flop onto the sofa, curling up into a small ball. "Go on," she grumbled, burying her face into a cushion. "Check my room if you must."

"Hey, what happened to my chair?" John asked suddenly, pointing towards the empty space opposite Sherlock's chair.

"It was blocking my view to the kitchen," Sherlock told him. His eyes were still on Elspeth, who refused to look at anyone. She'd pulled her hood up as she brought her knees closer to her chest, her arms circling around herself.

"Well, it's good to be missed," John said sarcastically.

"You were gone. I saw an opportunity."

"No, you saw the kitchen."

"Look, either check my room for drugs or leave me alone," Elspeth said suddenly. She lifted her head to glare at Mycroft and Sherlock. "I'd opt for the latter because if anyone would actually bother _listening _to me, I don't have a drug habit." Swinging her legs over the side of the sofa, she rose to her feet and stormed down the corridor. "Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to have a bath."

Elspeth slammed the bathroom door shut behind her. John rounded on Sherlock. "Did you know?" he hissed, pointing the direction Elspeth had gone. "Did you know about the drugs?"

"No," Sherlock answered. It was the truth. He had known about the drug den – it had been his idea, after all – but not that Elspeth would take anything. She had promised him that she wouldn't. The plan was to protect his daughter, not to put her in even more danger.

John sighed, shaking his head. Mycroft looked at Sherlock's bedroom door. "Your bedroom door is shut," he said. Looking between his brother and the door, Mycroft started to walk down the corridor. "You've been at home all night. So, why would a man who has never knowingly closed the door without the direct orders of his mother bother to do so on this occasion?"

Mycroft put his hand on the door knob. Sherlock lurched forwards. "S_top_!" he cried. "Just stop. Point made."

"Have to phone our parents, of course, in Oklahoma," Mycroft said as he released the door handle, strolling back up the corridor. "It's not the first time substance abuse has wreaked havoc with their line-dancing – though they may be surprised to hear it wasn't you, for once."

"This is not what you think. This is for a case," Sherlock told him.

Mycroft's smile was condescending as he gazed at his brother. "What case could possibly justify this?"

"Magnussen," Sherlock said. Mycroft's smile dropped. "Charles Augustus Magnussen."

For a second, Mycroft stared at Sherlock. He knew that name. John had heard the name before – he owned newspapers, but not the ones John read.

"Magnussen is not your business," Mycroft finally said, adopting a stern tone as he looked at Sherlock.

"Oh, you mean he's _yours_," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"You may consider him under my protection."

"I consider you under his thumb."

Mycroft took a step forwards. His voice was quiet, carrying an ominous tone as he spoke. "If you go against Magnussen, then you will find yourself going against _me_," he warned Sherlock, who gazed back at him passively. His brother's threats didn't faze him.

"Ok, I'll let you know if I notice," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "Er – what was I going to say? Oh yeah." He strolled away and opened the kitchen door. "Bye bye."

"Unwise, brother mine," Mycroft murmured as he passed Sherlock. His brother watched him leave with a venomous gaze, and not for the first time, John wondered what had caused the feud between them.

When Mycroft was gone, John spoke up. "Magnussen?"

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked.

"About eight."

"I'm meeting him in three hours, I need to talk to Mrs Hudson about something," Sherlock said, turning to follow Mycroft out of the living room.

"It's for a case, you said?" John called after him. "What sort of case?"

"Too big and dangerous for any sane individual to get involved in."

"You trying to put me off?"

"God no," Sherlock retorted, turning to give John a small smile as he reached the top of the stairs. "I'm trying to recruit you." John couldn't help but smile back at his friend. "And stay out of my bedroom," Sherlock called over his shoulder, trotting down the stairs. John waited until he was out of sight, then turned and strode towards Sherlock's bedroom door. He was halfway down the hall when the door opened, a familiar face poking out.

"Oh, John, hi!" Janine said, laughing in embarrassment as she stepped out of the bedroom. She was only wearing a shirt. Sherlock's shirt. John stared at her bare legs in shock, then at her. "How are you?"

John continued to stare at her in disbelief. "Janine?"

"Sorry, not dressed." Janine tugged on the bottom of the shirt, smiled and walked through to the kitchen. "Has everybody gone? I heard shouting."

"Yes, they're gone," John said, finally finding his voice. He continued to stare at her. He couldn't belief it, this had to be some kind of joke. Janine, a _woman_, was in Sherlock's _bedroom_. Wearing _his shirt_.

"God, look at the time. I'll be late," Janine said to herself, picking up the coffee percolator. She looked over her shoulder at John. "Sounded like an argument. Was it Mike?"

"Mike?" John repeated incredulously.

"Mike, yeah. His brother, Mike. They're always fighting."

"Mycroft," John said.

Janine's brow furrowed slightly as she gave John a wry grin. "Do people actually call him that?"

If John hadn't still been in shock, he would've had to bitten back a sarcastic remark – Mycroft was his name, what else would they call him? Instead, he settled for a simple, "Yeah."

"Huh. Oh, could you be a love and put some coffee on?" Janine asked. She didn't bother wait for an answer. "Thanks. Ooh!" she said suddenly, putting her hand on John's shoulder as she passed. "How's Mary? How's married life?"

"She's fine. We're both fine, yeah," John told her with a weak smile. He walked towards one of the cupboards.

"Oh, it's over there now," Janine said, pointing in another direction. "Where's Sherl?"

"Sherl," John breathed out, a bemused expression on his face. Oh, that was a nickname he was going to have to remember. He grinned, clearing his throat. "He's just talking to Mrs Hudson. I'm sure he'll be back in a minute."

The bathroom door opened, Elspeth shuffling out. Her damp hair hung by her shoulders and she was wrapped up in her dressing gown, looking mildly better than before.

"Morning Ellie," Janine said brightly, beaming at her. Elspeth returned the smile but it wasn't quite as genuine.

"Morning Janine," she said with forced happiness. Her smile dropped the moment Janine looked away from her.

"There you are!" Janine grinned as Sherlock walked into the living room and he smiled back. "I was beginning to think you'd left me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock told her. "It's late, shouldn't you get dressed?"

Janine stood on her tiptoes and whispered something in Sherlock's ear, both of them giggling like school children as she darted into the bedroom, him following close behind. Elspeth's expression was one of utter disgust, storming past John before he could ask her what the hell was going on.

Sherlock and Janine were only in the bedroom for a few minutes, and when they both emerged again, John was relieved to see that she was fully dressed. He sat on the sofa and was shortly joined by Elspeth, who had brushed her hair and changed into a cleaner pair of jeans. She looked a little better. She didn't smell at least.

"So – it's just a guess but you've probably got some questions," Sherlock said to John.

"Yeah, one or two, pretty much."

"Naturally."

The three of them looked towards Janine – Sherlock smiled, John shook his head in bemusement, and Elspeth scowled unhappily at her retreating back as she walked into Sherlock's bedroom.

"You have a _girlfriend_?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes, I have," Sherlock replied. John grinned, but Sherlock's expression was serious as he leaned forwards. "Now, Magnussen. Magnussen is like a shark – it's the only way I can describe him. Have you ever been to the shark tank at the London Aquarium, John – stood up close to the glass? Those floating flat faces, those dead eyes . . . that's what he is. I've dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them can turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen."

"Yes, you have," John said, his voice soft. "You have a girlfriend."

"What? Yes! Yes, I'm going out with Janine. I thought that was _fairly_ obvious."

"Oh yeah, it's obvious," Elspeth muttered under her breath.

"Yes, well . . . yes." John cleared his throat. "But I mean you – you – _you _. . . are in a relationship?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "Yes, I am," he said simply.

"You and Janine?"

"Yes, me and Janine."

"Care to elaborate?" John asked. He couldn't help it. He wanted to know.

Elspeth rolled her eyes and Sherlock looked up thoughtfully, taking in a deep breath. "Well," he said, carefully choosing his words. "We're in a good place. It's, um . . . very affirming."

"You got that from a book," Elspeth said.

"_Everyone_ got that from a book," Sherlock retorted. John looked between the two of them, frowning when he realised there was some tension between Sherlock and Elspeth. He wondered if it was something to do with the state he had found Elspeth in.

"Ok, you two bad boys, behave yourselves," Janine said. Sherlock smiled at her when she sat down on the arm of his chair, putting his arm around her as she turned and leaned close. "And you, Sherl – you're going to have to make up for last night."

"I'm sorry, I had work," Sherlock told her. Elspeth rolled her eyes again, turning away so they wouldn't see her sour expression.

"Work. Of course. I'm the only one who really knows what you're like, remember?"

"Mmm, aren't you lucky?" Elspeth asked her sarcastically. Janine's smile faltered slightly, Sherlock shooting his daughter a dark look before turning back to Janine.

"Don't you go letting on," he told her. He gently ran his finger down the tip of her nose, a tender gesture, and let his hand rest on her arm as they gazed into each other's eyes.

"I might just, actually," Janine said softly. Tearing her eyes from Sherlock's, she looked at John. "I haven't told Mary about this. I kind of wanted to surprise her."

"Yeah, you probably will," John commented.

"But we should have you two over for dinner really soon! _My_ place, though – not the scuzz-dump!" Janine laughed, playfully punching Sherlock on the shoulder. John glanced over at Elspeth. It was a good thing that looks couldn't kill. "Oh, I'd better dash. It was brilliant to see you!" Janine said, standing up.

"You too," John said, also standing up. Elspeth stayed sitting.

"It was nice seeing you, Ellie. You and Sherl have to come for dinner this week as well, we can have a girly night."

"Yeah, that would be great," Elspeth said flatly, her smile sarcastic and insincere. Sherlock ushered Janine to the door.

"Have a lovely day. Call me later."

Janine played with the edge of his jacket. "I might do," she teased. "I _might_ call you – unless I meet someone prettier."

Sherlock smiled back. Janine leaned up and kissed him noisily, John quickly turning away as he tried to process the sight.

"Solve me a crime, Sherlock Holmes," Janine whispered when they pulled apart, her nose brushing against his. The minute she was gone, Elspeth let out a loud noise that sounded like she was being sick, accompanied by an even louder gagging sound.

"You do realise that's actually disgusting, right?"

"Don't you have a boyfriend to call?" Sherlock snapped back, knowing that Elspeth and Todd were no longer seeing each other. They'd gone on a few dates after the wedding, but he broke it off, saying he couldn't keep up with Elspeth and her lifestyle. Sherlock regretted saying it the moment he saw the hurt in his daughter's eyes. He turned to John. "You know Magnussen as a newspaper owner, but he's _so_ much more than that. He uses his power and wealth to gain information. The more he acquires, the greater his wealth and power."

Sherlock walked past John, sat at the dining table and opened his laptop.

"I'm not exaggerating when I say that he knows the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond. He is the Napoleon of blackmail –" he showed John a photograph of Magnussen's house. "– and he has created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge. Its name is Appledore."

"Dinner," John said. Sherlock stared at him. "Me and Mary, coming for dinner . . . with . . . wine and . . . sitting."

"Seriously? I've just told you that the Western world is_ run_ from this house and you want to talk about _dinner_?" Sherlock demanded incredulously. Elspeth's lips twitched into a small smile. She then remembered what Sherlock had said and quickly scowled.

"Fine, talk about the house," John retorted rather childishly.

"It is the greatest repository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world, the Alexandrian Library of secrets and scandals – and _none_ of it is on a computer. He's smart – computers can be hacked. It's all on hard copy in vaults, underneath that house; and as long as it is, the personal freedom of _anyone_ you've ever met is a fantasy."

Mrs Hudson knocked on the living room door, walking in with her customary greeting. "That was the doorbell," she said. "Couldn't you hear it?"

"It's in the fridge," Elspeth told her. Sherlock had put it there.

"Who is it?" John asked Mrs Hudson, who drew it an anxious breath. Quickly, Sherlock shut his laptop and rose to his feet, taking a protective step towards Elspeth.

"It's him," Sherlock said. "It's Magnussen."

* * *

Thank you GeorgyannWayson, EICochrane, ElizabethCullen08, tardislover1, Meg, Fantasy-Mania31, one more off key anthem, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, WerewolfHybrid31, LoverofWords22, Guest, ALollie, Ms Moonshoes Potter, Bookworm45669, nakari ash, Adrillian1497, fmxc17, bellechat, Aimee, Guest, daisytayloragain and AmethystSiri for reviewing!

Le explanation as to why Ellie was in the drug den will be given in the next chapter hopefully; don't worry, I do have one!


	16. Chapter 16

_**16.**_

"Mr Holmes said you can go right up," Mrs Hudson said nervously. She flattened herself against the wall as the three men in dark suits walked up the stairs, trying not to remember the last time men in suits had visited 221B. A fourth followed slowly, turning his chilling gaze on her – _Martha Louise Hudson (nee Sissons), landlady, widow (see file), semi-reformed alcoholic, former "exotic dancer" (see file), finances: 21% debt (see file), status: unimportant. Pressure point: marijuana. _

Upstairs, the three men strode into the living room. Sherlock, John and Elspeth stood by the fireplace; Sherlock stood slightly in front of Elspeth, keeping her in sight but still behind him. He sighed when he saw the men, unfolding his arms.

"Oh, go ahead," he said. He spread his arms out, allowing one of the men to frisk him, while the second approached John. The third looked around the flat.

"Can I have a moment?" John asked, glancing at Sherlock, then back at the man in front of him. The suited man in front of Sherlock stopped frisking him, moving to the side so he could do the same to Elspeth. She struggled not to squirm when she felt his hands pat her down.

"He's fine," Sherlock said. He lowered his arms, watching the man in front of Elspeth out of the corner of his eye.

The man by John patted him, searching for anything, and paused briefly. "Er, I . . . right. I should probably tell you –" the man removed Bill's flick knife from John's jacket. "Ok, I . . . that. And –" his jacket was opened, the tyre lever removed from where John had tucked it into his jeans. Sherlock looked startled. "Doesn't mean I'm not pleased to see you," John said.

Elspeth ducked her head, trying not to laugh. Sherlock composed himself. "I can vouch for this man. He's a doctor. If you know who I am, then you know who _he_ is . . ." Sherlock paused as Magnussen walked in. "Don't you, Mr Magnussen?"

Looking up, Elspeth stared at Magnussen. He was a tall, slender man wearing an expensive looking suit, his eyes cold and flat. She suddenly understood what Sherlock meant.

"I understood we were meeting at _your_ office," Sherlock said.

Magnussen's eyes did a quick sweep of the room. "This _is_ my office," he said, walking slowly to the sofa. He looked at John – _John Hamish Watson, Afghanistan veteran (see file), G.P (see file), porn preference: normal, finances: 10% debt (see file), status unimportant. _"Well, it is _now_," Magnussen added. _Pressure point: Harry Watson (sister) alcoholic, Mary Morstan (wife)_.

Continuing to the dining room table, Magnussen picked up the newspaper there and returned to the sofa, sitting down. He didn't look at Sherlock, even as the detective spoke.

"Mr Magnussen, I have been asked to intercede with you by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood on the matter of her husband's letters," Sherlock said. Magnussen continued to ignore him. Elspeth frowned, watching the grown man shift on the sofa, like he thought it was uncomfortable. "Some time ago you . . . put pressure on her concerning those letters." Magnussen looked up at Sherlock then. "She would like those letters back."

Magnussen looked at Sherlock silently – _Sherlock Holmes, detective, porn preference: normal, finances: unknown, brother: Mycroft Holmes, M.I.6 (see file), officially deceased 2011 – 2013. Pressure point – _

"Obviously the letters no longer have any practical use to you, so with that in mind –" _Pressure point: Irene Adler (see file), Jim Moriarty (see file), Redbeard (see file), Hounds of the Baskerville, opium, John Watson, Elspeth Holmes (daughter)_. Magnussen snorted quietly. "Something I said?" Sherlock asked him.

"No, no, I – I was just reading," Magnussen replied. He adjusted his glasses slightly. "That's rather a lot."

Sherlock frowned. Elspeth looked at her father, confused. The slight movement caught Magnussen's attention, as he had otherwise been ignoring her, and when he turned his flat stare on her, she froze. _Elspeth Holmes_, _former student, "detective in training" (see file), clinically depressed (see file), porn preference: none, finances: unknown, family: Mycroft Holmes (uncle), Sherlock Holmes (father), Catherine Fisher (mother – see file). Pressure point: antidepressants, Jim Moriarty (see file), Sherlock Holmes. _His lips twitched into the slightest of smiles. A shiver ran down Elspeth's spine as she gazed back at him passively.

"Redbeard," Magnussen said thoughtfully, looking at Sherlock again. Sherlock blinked. His mouth opened slightly. "Sorry. You were probably talking?"

It took Sherlock a moment to compose himself again. "I . . ." he cleared his throat. "I was trying to explain that I've been asked to act on behalf of –"

"Bathroom?" Magnussen interrupted. He turned to the man beside John, who nodded to his right.

"Along from the kitchen, sir."

"I've been asked to negotiate the return of those letters," Sherlock said firmly. Magnussen looked out of the window and if this hadn't been such an important case, then Elspeth probably would've snapped at him to pay attention. Every time she thought about his eyes looking at her, however, she shuddered. "I'm aware you do not make copies of sensitive documents –"

"Is it like the rest of the flat?" Magnussen interrupted a second time.

"Sir?"

"The bathroom?"

"Er, yes, sir."

Magnussen frowned. "Maybe not then."

"Am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?" Sherlock asked him. Magnussen turned and met his eyes for a few seconds, leaving Elspeth wondering how her father didn't flinch under such an invasive gaze.

"Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. I _like_ her," Magnussen said. He popped his lips a few times, like he was talking about a piece of meat.

"Mr Magnussen, am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?" Sherlock repeated.

Magnussen ignored him. "She's English, with a spine," he said. Pushing the coffee table away from him with his foot, Magnussen rose from his seat while the security man by Elspeth stepped forwards to the fireplace, removing the fireguard. "Best thing about English," Magnussen continued. He walked forwards, stepping between Sherlock and John. "you're _so_ domesticated. All standing around, apologising, keeping your little heads down."

The sound of Magnussen unzipping his trousers made Elspeth blink. She frowned uncertainly; surely Magnussen _wasn't_ . . .

"You can do what you like here. No one's ever going to stop you." Oh God, he _was_. Magnussen was urinating in the fireplace. Sherlock and Elspeth kept their gazes on the wall ahead of them, John unable to stop the appalled expression from appearing on his face. "A nation of herbivores. I've interests all over the world but – er – everything starts in England. If it works here –" Magnussen paused and zipped his trousers back up. "– I'll try it in a _real_ country."

Magnussen looked at his reflection in the mirror briefly, his eyes flickering towards the back of Elspeth's head. He smirked again.

The security guard next to John handed him a packet of wet wipes as Magnussen strolled back in between them. Taking one, he turned to face Sherlock, John, and Elspeth. She couldn't look at him knowing what he had just done.

"The United Kingdom, huh? Petri dish to the Western world," Magnussen said. He wiped his fingers. "Tell Lady Elizabeth I might need those letters, so I'm keeping them." He dropped the wet wipe on the ground, chuckling at Elspeth's poorly disguised look of disgust. "Goodbye."

Magnussen turned as if to leave, then paused when a sudden thought came into his mind.

"Anyway," he said, looking back at Sherlock and pulling out the edge of a packet of documents to show to him. "They're funny." Smirking, he tucked the documents back into his pocket and left the room.

"_Jesus_," John said furiously.

"Did you notice the one extraordinary thing he did?" Sherlock asked.

"Wh . . . There _was_ a moment that kind of stuck in the mind, yeah," John said sarcastically, gesturing towards the fireplace with disgust. Sherlock didn't notice.

"Exactly – when he showed us the letters."

Elspeth frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly as she turned to look at her father. "Really?" she asked. "There's nothing else you found extraordinary?"

"So he's brought the letters to London – so no matter _what_ he says, he's ready to make a deal," Sherlock continued. "Now, Magnussen only makes a deal once he's established a person's weaknesses – the 'pressure point', he calls it."

John frowned, watching Sherlock pull on his coat. "What do you think he thinks is your pressure point?"

"The flat reeks of Janine's perfume, she's always worn a lot – he must think I have a soft spot for my girlfriend. Elspeth is a possibly, but her drug intake suggests she's not important. If you hadn't insisted on bringing her back here, that possibly would've been eliminated completely."

John stared at Sherlock incredulously, Elspeth looking down at her feet.

"So clearly," Sherlock said. "He thinks I'm no serious threat. _And_, of course, because he's in town tonight, the letters will be in his safe in his London office while he's out to dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain from seven until ten."

"How – how do you know his schedule?"

"Because I do. Right – I'll see you tonight. I've got some shopping to do. Come on, Ellie." Sherlock headed out of the room and down the stairs, Elspeth sighing as she trailed after him.

"What's tonight?" John called after him.

"I'll text instructions."

"Yeah, I'll text _you_ if I'm available," John retorted loudly, childishly.

"You are, I checked!" Sherlock shouted back, making John roll his eyes and follow him down the stairs. Sherlock opened the front door. "Don't bring a gun."

"Why would I bring a gun?"

"Or a knife, or a tyre lever. Probably best not to do any arm-spraining, but we'll see how the night goes," Sherlock said, hailing a taxi.

"You're just assuming I'm coming along?"

"The cycling isn't working, you've put on seven pounds since you got married," Elspeth told him with a shrug, opening the taxi door and sliding into the back seat while John glowered back at her.

"It's actually _four _pounds," he grumbled.

"Mary and I think seven. See you later," Sherlock said, climbing into the taxi and shutting the door. "Hatton Garden," he said to the cab driver. Elspeth leaned back in her seat and turned to gaze out of the window, aware that Sherlock was watching her out of the corner of his eye.

"Go on," she said. "Say it. I know you want to."

Sherlock gazed at Elspeth for a moment. It was a cliché, but he wasn't _angry_ with her, just . . . _disappointed_. "You shouldn't have taken them," Sherlock told her quietly, referring to the drugs.

"Right, so it's ok for you to do it?" Elspeth retorted, unable to stop herself. The moment she said it, however, she regretted it. Sherlock looked at her silently before turning away. He didn't want Elspeth making the same mistakes as he had; he didn't have many memories of his drug addiction, but Sherlock knew that it nearly tore his family apart. He was beyond help at one point. Dangerous, reckless, helpless. Then Elspeth came into his life . . .

"No," Sherlock said quietly. Frowning, Elspeth slowly turned to look at him, her expression guarded. She had been expecting to be told off. Sherlock's sombre demeanour was worse, she realised, because it meant that he was upset with her.

". . . sorry," Elspeth whispered, gazing out of the window again. Sherlock gave her a sideways glance. The rest of the journey was spent in silence.

* * *

John arrived at the skyscraper first, glancing up at the logo – CAM Global News. A large TV screen broadcasted the company's news channel, men and women in expensive clothing bustling past as John lingered in the foyer. The security barriers obviously required some sort of card to open them.

"Magnussen's office is on the top floor, just below his private flat," Sherlock said, he and Elspeth walking behind John. "but there are fourteen levels of security between us and him, two of which aren't even legal in this country. Want to know how we're going to break in?"

"Is that what we're doing?" John asked him.

"Of _course _that's what we're doing," Elspeth said. She had a sullen look in her eyes, and John wondered if she and Sherlock had spoken about the drugs.

Turning abruptly, Sherlock led them towards the escalator that wasn't too far from the security barriers. "Magnussen's private lift. It goes straight to his penthouse and office," he said. "Only _he_ uses it, and only _his_ key card calls the lift. Anyone else even tries, security is automatically informed." Sherlock and John got off the escalator, Elspeth following close behind. "Standard key card for the building. Nicked it yesterday. Only gets us as far as the canteen. Here we go, then."

They stopped several yards from the lift, Sherlock gazing at it as he went through the many possibilities in his mind. He turned to John and Elspeth.

"If I was to use this card on that lift now, what happens?" he asked.

"Er – the alarms would go off and you'd be dragged away by security," John said.

"Exactly."

"Then you would probably be taken to a small room, where you would be interrogated and get your head viciously kicked in," Elspeth added. Sherlock gave her a _look_.

"Yes, thank you, Ellie," he said dryly. She returned the _look_. John tried not to laugh; it was uncanny how alike they were. Ignoring her, Sherlock took his phone from his pocket. "But if I do _this_ . . ." he pressed the security card against his phone. "If you press a key card against your mobile phone for long enough, it corrupts the magnetic strip. The card stops working. It's a common problem – never put your key card with your phone. What happens if I use the card now?"

"It still doesn't work," John pointed out.

"But it doesn't read as the _wrong_ card now. It registers as corrupted. But if it's corrupted, how do they know it's not Magnussen?"

"They don't," Elspeth said, blinking. "They'd have to check if it was him."

"There's a camera at eye height to the right of the door," Sherlock said. "A live picture of the card user is relayed directly to Magnussen's personal staff in his office – the only people trusted to make a positive ID. At this hour, almost certainly his PA."

"So how does that help us?" John asked Sherlock, feeling a bit lost. Sherlock smiled.

"Human error." He patted the breast pocket of his coat. "I've been shopping." Still smiling, Sherlock walked along the corridor to the lift, raising the card towards its reader. "Here we go, then," he said again to himself.

"You realise you don't exactly look like Magnussen," John reminded him quietly. He kept taking quick, furtive looks up and down the corridor, like he expected security to drag them away at any second.

"Which, in this case, is a considerable advantage," Sherlock said confidently, smiling up at the security camera that John and Elspeth stood to the side of, out of view. A few seconds later, a familiar voice spoke over the intercom.

"Sherlock, you complete loon! What are you doing?!"

Sherlock's smile widened, John staring at him in surprise. "Hang on – was that . . . that –" he turned to Elspeth, who didn't look shocked at all. In fact, she seemed rather pissed off.

"Hi, Janine," Sherlock said sweetly. "Go on, let me in."

"I can't! You _know_ I can't. Don't be silly."

"Don't make me do it out here." Sherlock's voice was soft, pleading. "Not . . ." he paused as a women walked past, waiting for her to leave before turning back to the camera. "Not in front of everyone."

"Do what in front of everyone?" Janine asked him. Elspeth rolled her eyes, watching Sherlock take a small box from his pocket and open it, holding it up to the camera to show Janine the engagement ring nestled into the velvet. Sherlock gave Janine his best puppy dog eyes over the open lid of the box, gazing into the camera, and a few seconds later, the lift doors opened.

"You see? As long as there's people, there's always a weak spot," Sherlock said, walking into the lift. John looked at Elspeth incredulously. She looked back at him with her lips pursed together, both of them following Sherlock.

"That was Janine."

"Yes, of _course_ it was Janine. She's Magnussen's PA. That's the whole point."

"Did you just get engaged to break into an office?" John asked him slowly, blinking.

"Yeah," Sherlock said with a nonchalant attitude, like it was an ordinary thing to do. "Stroke of luck, meeting her at your wedding. You can take some of the credit."

"Sherlock, she loves you."

"Yes," Sherlock said flatly. "Like I said – human error."

"What are you going to do?"

"Well, not actually marry her, obviously. There's only _so_ far you can go."

"So what will you tell her?"

"I imagine 'I only got engaged to you so I could break into your boss' office' would work," Elspeth said with a hint of bitterness in her voice. "She'll probably want to stop seeing Dad after that, though."

The lift stopped, the three of them walking out – Sherlock bobbed up and down slightly, an excited gesture, but stopped when he realised that Janine's office was empty.

"She's gone," Elspeth said.

"It's a bit rude. I just proposed to her," Sherlock commented, his tone laced with annoyance. Turning around, he was surprised to see Janine on the ground, unconscious. "Did she faint? Do they _really_ do that?"

"It's a blow to the head," John said, touching Janine's head. His fingers came away bloody. "She's breathing. Janine?"

Sherlock walked through to the adjoining room with Elspeth close behind, seeing a suited man lying face down on the ground; he was a security guard, ex con – Sherlock told John to leave him where he was, to stick with Janine. Frowning, Elspeth crossed the room and put her hand down on the leather chair.

"It's warm," she said. "Magnussen must still be here."

"He should be at dinner but he's still in the building," Sherlock said softly. He raised his eyes. "Upstairs."

". . . should we call the police?" Elspeth asked. Sherlock gave her a sarcastic look, his eyebrows raised slightly. "Ok, stupid question. What should we do?"

"No, wait, ssh," Sherlock said, closing his eyes and sniffing deeply. He could smell something. "Perfume," he murmured. "Not Janine's . . . Clair – de – la – lune. Why do I know it?"

"I think Mary wears it."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, not Mary. Somebody else." He lifted his head, hearing a noise upstairs. "Stay here." Before Elspeth could respond, Sherlock raced past her, up the stairs to Magnussen's private penthouse. He slowed down when he reached the corridor, walking with quiet footsteps as he listened to Magnussen pleading.

"What – what – what would your husband think, eh? He . . . your lovely husband, upright, honourable . . . so English. What – what would he say to you now?" Magnussen's voice was tearful, his hands behind his ear as he cowered. In front of him, a figure dressed in black aimed a pistol at him, cocking it. Sherlock pushed open the door. "You're – you're doing this to protect him from the truth . . . but is this protection he would want?"

Sherlock walked in, standing a few feet from the person holding the gun. "Additionally, if you're going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume . . . Lady Smallwood."

Magnussen stared at Sherlock, straightening up slightly and breathing out a long shaky breath. "Sorry, who?" he asked. Sherlock focused on the back of the assassin's head, Magnussen's eyes flickering between the two of them. "That's . . . not . . . Lady Smallwood, Mr Holmes," Magnussen said slowly.

Sherlock frowned. The figure in black took in a deep breath, adjusting their grip on the pistol, before slowly turning to face him. It wasn't Lady Smallwood aiming a pistol at him. It was Mary.

* * *

Thank you EICochrane, one more off key anthem, tardislover1, fmxc17, iwanttobeaneverdeen, ArabellaBlack25, Meg, xoxoChairGossipxoxo, Bookworm45669, GeorgyannWayson, Adrillian1497, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, ElizabethCullen08, bellechat, AmethystSiri and Aimee for reviewing!

Ahhh feels ahead.

I hope that le explanation was satisfactory; Sherlock wanted to dismiss Elspeth as a pressure point for her own safety, but of course didn't expect her to end up in a drug den and get high . . . but of course Magnussen is evil and knows everything. Damn him.


	17. Chapter 17

_**17.**_

Sherlock gazed at her silently, his mouth open but no words leaving his lips, and neither of them dared breathe. Mary . . . Mary Watson was pointing a gun at him. _Mary_ – _only child, liar, linguist, liar, clever, liar, part time nurse, liar, short sighted, liar, guardian, liar, bakes own bread, liar, disillusioned, liar, cat lover, liar, romantic, liar, appendix scar, liar, Lib Dem, liar, secret tattoo, liar, size 12, liar, liar LIAR_. Mary Watson was a complete and utter liar.

"Is John with you?" she asked him softly, her voice steady.

Sherlock licked his lips. "He's . . . um . . ."

"Is John _here_?" Mary repeated firmly.

"He's – he's downstairs, with Ellie," Sherlock told her. Mary nodded, like she had expected that.

"So, what do you do now? Kill us both?" Magnussen's voice was soft, taunting almost. If Sherlock hadn't been staring at Mary, who smiled humourlessly over her shoulder, he would've told Magnussen to be quiet.

"Mary, whatever he's got on you, let me help," Sherlock pleaded. He shifted his weight onto one foot, preparing to step forwards, and immediately Mary's finger tightened on the trigger.

"Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you," Mary told him, her tone exasperated.

He shook his head. "No, Mrs Watson," Sherlock said softly. Her mouth fell open, her hard gaze softening slightly without meaning to. "You won't."

Sherlock stared to lift his foot. Mary pulled the trigger.

Pain jolting through him, Sherlock looked down at the wound on his lower chest, watching the blood spread across his white shirt, and then at Mary as she sighed regretfully.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I truly am," Mary said tearfully.

". . . Mary?"

* * *

"It's not like it is in the movies," Molly said casually, smiling as she walked around Sherlock. It took him a moment to realise he was in his Mind Palace. "There's not a great big spurt of blood and you go flying backwards." He was still in Magnussen's office, but as she spoke, the scenery around Molly turned white. Molly stopped smiling. "The impact isn't spread over a wide area."

Sherlock realised they were in a mortuary room, a body covered with a white sheet on the table in the centre of the room. She pulled the sheet back to reveal his body. "It's tightly focused, so there's little or no energy transfer. You stay still and the bullet pushes through. You're almost certainly going to die, so we need to focus."

Molly slapped him hard across the face and Sherlock gasped sharply, his eyes snapping open.

"I said _focus_." Molly slapped him a second time, Sherlock's whirling around, reeling from the shock. Still in the mortuary room, he stared at his still body lying on the table next to him. "It's all well and clever having a Mind Palace, but you've only three seconds of consciousness left to use it. So, come on – what's going to kill you?"

Sherlock looked down at his body next to him, then at Molly. "Blood loss," he said.

"Exactly. So, it's all about one thing now. Forwards, or backwards?" Molly asked him. The mortuary faded away and Sherlock was back in Magnussen's office, swaying unsteadily. In front of him, Mary and Magnussen were frozen – he was still in his Mind Palace. Molly spoke up again. "We need to decide which way you're going to fall."

"One hole, or two?"

Sherlock frowned, turning and looking at Anderson over his shoulder. "I'm sorry?"

"Is the bullet still inside you, or is there an exit wound? It'll depend on the gun," Molly told him. Uncertainly, Sherlock consulted his knowledge of the gun . . . which one was it? _That_ one . . . or maybe it was _this_ one . . . he frowned.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped, Sherlock turning around as the room changed from Magnussen's office to Mycroft's. "It doesn't matter about the gun. Don't be stupid. You always were so stupid." Sherlock walked towards his brother, but he was no longer the grown man he was; he was an eleven year old boy again, glowering up at Mycroft petulantly. "Such a disappointment."

"I'm not stupid," eleven year old Sherlock said angrily.

"You're a _very_ stupid little boy," Mycroft sneered sternly, standing up and walking around the desk. "Mummy and Daddy are very cross, because it doesn't matter about the gun."

"Why not?" Sherlock demanded.

"You saw the whole room when you entered it. What was directly behind you when you were murdered?"

"I've not been murdered _yet_."

"Balance of probability, little brother," Mycroft said. Back in Magnussen's office, Sherlock turned and looked at the row of panelled mirrors behind him on the wall. "If the bullet had passed through you, what would you have heard?"

"The mirror shattering," Sherlock said, feeling very much like a small child again. Mycroft was even using the same voice he'd used when they were young.

"You _didn't_. Therefore . . .?"

"The bullet's still inside me."

"So, we need to take him down backwards," Anderson said.

"I agree," Molly said. "Sherlock –" he turned and looked at her, giving her his full attention. "You need to fall on your back."

"Right now, the bullet is the cork in the bottle," Anderson explained.

"The bullet itself is blocking most of the blood flow," Molly added.

"But any pressure or impact on the entrance wound could dislodge it," Anderson concluded.

"Plus, on your back, gravity's working for us. Fall now," Molly ordered. His eyes half shut, Sherlock found himself falling, slowly at first. He felt his mouth open, heard the scream, but didn't register it coming from him as a siren started to blast in his mind, the office replaced with the mortuary room once more. Stumbling backwards, Sherlock slammed into the cabinets by the wall.

"What the hell is that? What's happening?" Sherlock yelled. Beside him, one of the cabinet doors opened and the tray slid out; Sherlock stared down at his dead body in horror.

"You're going into shock," Molly said. Straightening up, Sherlock looked at her, wide eyed. "It's the next thing that's going to kill you."

"What do I do?" Sherlock asked desperately.

"Don't go into shock, obviously," Mycroft told him contemptuously, his eyes sweeping over the room with disinterest. Even in Sherlock's mind palace, his brother was unimpressed. "Must be _something_ in this ridiculous Memory Palace of yours that can calm you down." Sherlock stared back at him. "_Find _it."

Screwing his eyes shut, Sherlock ran. Mycroft's voice followed him through the corridors – "The East Wind is coming, Sherlock. It's coming to _get_ you."

The first door Sherlock opened revealed Mary in her wedding dress and veil, a hard expression on her face as she fired her pistol at him. Falling backwards, Sherlock landed in a long corridor with wooden doors lined on either side. He scrambled to his feet, remembering Mycroft's words, and pulled open the nearest door.

"Hello, Redbeard," Sherlock said, spotting the dog – an Irish setter – lying on the ground a short distance away. "Here, boy. Come on! Come to me. It's okay. It's alright." Redbeard climbed to his feet and trotted down the corridor to Sherlock, who patted his legs encouragingly as he continued to call to his childhood pet. Kneeling on the ground, Sherlock stroked Redbeard's head and ears, feeling the familiar soft fur beneath his fingers while his dog playfully licked his face. "They're putting _me_ down too, now," Sherlock said sadly. "It's no fun, is it?"

He felt calmer – "But not calm enough," Mycroft said from behind him. Redbeard barked, trotted past Sherlock, and the detective turned around as he did.

"Daddy!" Elspeth yelled. She was young, three years old, maybe four, and she raced down the corridor as fast as her little legs would carry her. Grinning widely, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his daughter as she flung hers around his neck, clinging to her because he couldn't bear to let go. Redbeard calmed him down, but Elspeth kept him grounded. "Are you ok, Daddy?" she asked him, gazing up at him with her big eyes.

"I am now," Sherlock told her softly. He gently ran his hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ears and stroking her cheeks. She was so young, so beautiful. Innocent.

Elspeth grinned back at him, fading away as Sherlock fell backwards suddenly. He landed on a carpet, staring up at the ceiling.

"Without the shock, you're going to feel the pain," Molly told him. Pain shot through Sherlock, unstoppable, uncontrollable. His whole body started to convulse, his teeth gritted in an attempt to stop the screams from escaping. "There's a hole ripped through you. Massive internal bleeding." He _screamed_. Tears streaming down his face, Sherlock's body curled up it itself as he continued to convulse, screaming at the top of his voice. The pain was _unbearable_. "You _have_ to control the _pain_."

Sherlock ran down the stairs, reaching the bottom and, still screaming, running through a door into a padded cell. His footsteps echoed on the concrete floor, the heavily padded walls hard against his trembling hands. Breathing rapidly and irregularly, Sherlock's eyes focused on the figure crouched on the floor opposite him. The door slammed shut. He flattened himself against the wall, tried to control the way his body jerked and trembled, and stared upwards.

"_Control_," Sherlock hissed. "Control! Control!"

On the other side of the room, the man slowly turned his head towards Sherlock a little. He wore a filthy white straightjacket that restrained him, a large metal collar around his neck with a heavy chain fastened to it. Sherlock stared back at him.

"You," he said. Sherlock took in several deep breaths and walked towards the man. "You never felt pain, did you? Why did you never feel _pain_?"

"You _always_ feel it, Sherlock," Jim Moriarty murmured. His face was dirty, flushed dark red with anger as he glared at Sherlock with a murderous gleam in his eyes. Suddenly, Moriarty surged forwards, charging towards him. "But you don't have to fear it!" he yelled manically.

Sherlock had recoiled slightly as Moriarty ran across the room, the movement making him double over and cry out in agony. He felt himself slowly crumble to his knees. Moriarty's wide eyed, insane eyes watched him as Sherlock fell onto his back, writhing.

"Pain. Heartbreak. _Loss_. _Death_," Moriarty whispered, his voice intense. "It's _all_ good."

* * *

The gunshot rang through the building, Elspeth freezing the moment she heard it. John, who was still kneeling by Janine, looked up at the sound, his mouth open.

"Ellie?" he called. Scrambling to his feet, he ran into the other room, relieved to see Elspeth was alright. She stared back at him for a few seconds. Realisation dawned on them. "Oh my God," John whispered.

"Dad," Elspeth said quietly.

Spinning around, she ran from the side room to the staircase with John following close behind; Elspeth almost tripped in her haste, her shins bashing against the steps, but barely noticed as she raced up them. There would be bruises the next morning.

"Dad!" Elspeth yelled. "_Dad_!"

"Ellie, Ellie –" John grabbed Elspeth by the arm, turning her around to face him. She looked back at him with wide eyes, her face contorted into a frantic expression as she tried to pull away from him. "Look, I know it's hard, but Sherlock just got shot and whoever did it might still be here."

"I don't care," Elspeth told him. She yanked her arm from his grip, running down the corridor before he could catch hold of her again. John swore and followed her as she darted into one of the rooms. "Oh my God," she whispered. Sherlock was on the ground, silent, still . . . "_John_!"

John raced across the room, falling next to Elspeth. In the corner of the room, Magnussen watched them curiously, his cold eyes capturing every one of Elspeth's movements. She patted his face gently and opened his coat, pushing it to the side so John could examine the wound, her hands trembling. She kept whispering "_Dad_," in case it would somehow wake him up. She was desperate.

Elspeth turned her gaze on Magnussen, her eyes hard and angry. "What happened?" she demanded. Her voice shook a little bit.

"He got shot," Magnussen said weakly. Elspeth's expression was sarcastic, her eyes narrowing, her eyebrows raising – _oh really_?

John took his phone out, looking at Magnussen sternly. "Who shot him?"

_Oh_, so John really didn't know. Sitting up, Magnussen put his glasses on, unable to stop his lips from twitching into the slightest of smiles.

"Ellie, I need you to calm down –"

"My Dad has just be shot, don't tell me to _calm down_!"

"Elspeth Holmes, you do what I say," John snapped back. He used the voice Elspeth had dubbed his 'soldier voice', the tone he used when he addressed other soldiers or Sherlock with – it was powerful, and had the desired effect of sobering Elspeth from her slightly hysterical state. "Take this –" John bundled his jacket up and pressed it against Sherlock's wound. He took Elspeth's hands, holding them in place. "– and keep pressure on it, alright?"

Nodding silently, Elspeth kept her hands still enough to hold the jacket to Sherlock's chest. _Please be alright,_ she pleaded silently. _Please, Dad. _

* * *

Shutting his eyes, Sherlock fought through the agony in his chest. John and Elspeth had both been shot, how did they manage the pain? He gritted his teeth.

"It's raining, it's pouring. Sherlock is boring . . ." Moriarty sung softly. "I'm laughing, I'm crying. Sherlock is dying . . ." his voice trailing off, Moriarty dropped to his knees by Sherlock, his heavy breath tickling the detective's face. "Come on, Sherlock. Just _die_, why can't you?" He lay down on his side, their faces close. "One little push, and off you pop."

Sherlock felt himself drifting away, the pain slowly fading. Outside his mind palace, one of the many doctors surrounding him in the theatre room did a few more heart compressions on Sherlock's chest when a flat line rolled across the monitor.

"You're going to love being dead, Sherlock," Moriarty continued conversationally, kneeling next to him. "No one _ever_ bothers you." In the back of his mind, Sherlock thought that would be nice, never being bothered . . . people always bothered him, they never left him alone. "Mrs Hudson will cry, and Mummy and Daddy will cry . . ." Standing up, Moriarty spun around in circles until the chains stopped him, spinning around in the opposite direction. "And The Woman will cry, and John will cry buckets, and Ellie probably won't _stop_ crying."

At the mention of Elspeth, Sherlock's eyes flickered open slightly. Moriarty didn't seem to notice as he carried on spinning around.

"I worry about John," he said. "That _wife_!" Moriarty grimaced, letting out a noisy breath. "It's Ellie I worry about the most though . . . who knows what'll happen to her. Maybe she'll end up in the loony bin again. They'll be no one around to protect her when you're gone. Ellie Holmes is definitely in danger."

_Ellie Holmes is definitely in danger._ Sherlock's eyes snapped open abruptly. No, Elspeth wasn't going to be in danger, not again. He wasn't going to leave her.

Blinking, Sherlock let out a pained noise as he started to push himself to his feet. Moriarty's eyes widened slightly, his head turning towards him. Sherlock groaned, slammed his hand onto the floor of the cell, and forced himself up on one elbow. There was no way he was going to leave Elspeth a second time.

"Oh, you're not getting better, are you?" Moriarty asked tetchily, irritably. Sherlock hauled himself to his feet, staggering, and slumped against the wall for support. "Was it something I said, huh?" Moriarty grinned manically at Sherlock again. His smile faded when Sherlock glared back at him, breathing heavily, sweat rolling down his forehead. He pushed himself off the wall, turned to the door beside him, and pulled it open.

"_Ellie_," Sherlock whispered frantically.

"_SHERLOCK!"_ Moriarty yelled after him, the door slamming shut.

Sherlock grabbed hold of the stair banister, grimacing in agony as he began to pull himself up, every movement harder than the last. He couldn't help but cry out in pain, leaning against the banister or the wall for support, exhausted – then he would remember Elspeth, think about those years he had left her, let her think he was dead, and Sherlock would pull himself up several more steps. He refused to put her in danger again.

In the operating room, the doctors looked down at their patient. The line on the heart monitor started to rise and fall, slowly becoming more regular, as Sherlock's finger twitched. His eyelids flickered. The doctors exchanged glances, confused; they were moments away from declaring Sherlock Holmes _dead_.

Sherlock opened his eyes. "_Mary_," he whispered.

* * *

"Elspeth Holmes?"

Stopping abruptly in her pacing, Elspeth whirled around and faced the doctor as John rose from the plastic seat he had been sitting in. "Yeah, that's me," Elspeth said. "Is he alright?"

"The surgery was successful, and your father is resting now."

"He's alive?" John asked disbelievingly, a wide grin spreading across his face as Elspeth let out a shaky sigh of relief, running a hand through her hair.

"Yes, Mr Holmes is alive – he mentioned a name when he first woke up, I believe it was Mary?" the doctor looked quizzically at them, John and Elspeth exchanging confused glances. Elspeth's eyes narrowed slightly. Sherlock would've said Mary's name for a reason.

"Mary," John repeated. "Huh, guess my wife has some explaining to do." He laughed and so did the doctor, but Elspeth's smile was forced.

"Can we see him?" she asked the doctor eagerly.

"Mr Holmes is asleep and under the influence of morphine at the moment –"

"That's alright, I won't disturb him," Elspeth interrupted. Before John or the doctor could stop her, she ducked into Sherlock's room, letting the door gently swing shut behind her. Sherlock was fast asleep, his chest slowly rising and falling. Elspeth crossed the room quietly, taking a chair from by the window and pushing it beside his bed.

"Hey Dad," she said softly. Sherlock didn't respond. "You scared us a bit, you know." Elspeth laughed to herself, a little self-conscious. For a moment in Magnussen's penthouse, she had been terrified that she'd lost him again, only this time it would've been permanently. She didn't know if she could ever go through that a second time.

A sudden thought popped into her mind, a grin spreading across her face.

"Guess what, Dad? You can join the club now."

If Sherlock was awake, his lips would've quirked into a slight smile as he'd roll his eyes fondly at her. He had told her about her time in hospital after her encounter with Moriarty, filling her in on the ridiculous stuff she had said to them all.

Smiling, Elspeth reached out and grabbed hold of Sherlock's hand.

"It's ok, Dad," Elspeth said quietly, holding his hand in both of hers. "I'm not going anywhere." True to her word, Elspeth Holmes stayed by her father's side all night.

* * *

Thank you iwanttobeaneverdeen, ScissorLuv143, one more off key anthem, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, GeorgyannWayson, Bookworm45669, EICochrane, xoxoChairGossipxoxo, fmxc17, ElizabethCullen08, nakari ash, tardislover1, bellechat, Aimee, Meg and Adrillian1497 for reviewing!

The Mind Palace scene was scarily intense to write. The atmosphere was slightly ruined for me, however, when a moth kept bombarding me and my laptop screen . . .


	18. Chapter 18

_**18.**_

"Mary," John breathed out, relieved when he saw his wife run up the stairs. "He's only bloody woken up! He's pulled through."

She blinked, smiling at him. "Really? Seriously?"

"Oh – _you,_ Mrs Watson –" John pointed at Mary with a stern expression. "– you're in big trouble."

Mary frowned at him and looked confused, trying to ignore the fear that coursed through her. Did John know? Had Sherlock told him? No, he couldn't have; John wouldn't be calm if Sherlock had told him.

". . . why?" Mary asked worriedly.

"His first word when he woke up? _Mary_!" John laughed and Mary giggling nervously, hugging him tightly. "Come on, we'll go relieve Ellie of the babysitting duty. She's not left Sherlock's side since he arrived."

Mary forced herself to grin at John as he took her by the hand and led her down the corridor, into Sherlock's room. Elspeth was curled up in a chair next to his bed, her hair scraped back and her eyes only half open, giving John and Mary a small smile when they walked in. She was still holding Sherlock's hand.

"Hey," John said quietly.

"Hi." Elspeth yawned, wiped her eyes with the back of her other hand, and leaned back in her seat. She hadn't slept all night.

"Why don't you and Ellie get some coffee?" Mary suggested to John quickly. "I'll stay here and look after Sherlock."

"Great idea," Elspeth said. She put Sherlock's hand by his side carefully, squeezing it before jumping up, following John out of the room. She'd been awake all night and if she couldn't get any sleep, she was going to settle for the next best thing – coffee. Mary smiled at them as they went. Her smile dropped the moment the door shut behind her.

Standing by Sherlock's side, Mary watched his eyes flicker open slightly. "You don't tell him," she warned him softly. His eyebrows pulled together, his brow creasing slightly. "Sherlock? You don't tell John."

Sherlock frowned up at him. His vision was blurry but he could hear her voice, recognise the threat in her voice.

"Look at me," Mary ordered. She leaned closer to Sherlock. "Look at me and tell me you're not going to tell him."

His vision became more blurry, and slowly, Sherlock slipped back into unconsciousness.

* * *

**SHAG – A – LOT – HOLMES: Sherlock is as red blooded as they come, claims fiancée. **

**EXCLUSIVE – SHERLOCK HOLMES KISS AND TELL: 7 TIMES A NIGHT IN BAKER STREET.**

**He Made Me Wear The Hat. **

"I'm buying a cottage," Janine told Sherlock, lowering the newspapers and slapping them on the bed next to her. "I made a lot of money out of you, mister. Nothing hits the spot like revenge for profits."

Sherlock lifted one of the newspapers tiredly, looking at it. "You didn't give these stories to Magnussen, did you?" he asked her.

"God no – one of his rivals. He was spitting!" Sherlock smiled at that, but Janine looked at him angrily. She wouldn't raise her voice because Elspeth was in the chair by Sherlock's bed, her legs stretched out in front of her and her arms wrapped loosely around herself while she slept. "Sherlock Holmes, you are a back-stabbing, heartless, manipulative bastard."

"And you – as it turns out – are a grasping, opportunistic, publicity-hungry whore," Sherlock replied calmly. He pushed the button that rose the top of his bed so he could sit more comfortably. Janine smiled brightly.

"So we're good then?"

"Yes, of course. Where's the cottage?"

"Sussex Downs," Janine said. "It's gorgeous. There's beehives, but I'm getting rid of those." Sherlock nodded, trying to push himself up a bit more. Pain shot through him and he gasped. "Aw, hurts, does it?" Janine asked with mock sympathy, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Probably want to restart your morphine. I may have fiddled with the taps."

"_How_ much more revenge are you going to need?" Sherlock muttered, pushing the button to release a dosage of morphine.

"Just the occasional top up." It was a good thing that Elspeth didn't like Janine, Sherlock realised. The revenge may have been ten times worse if the two of them liked each other. "Good thing Ellie's asleep," Janine commented, looking around the room. "This place actually _gives _you drugs."

"My daughter is none of your concern," Sherlock told her fiercely, angrily. Janine smiled back.

"She's a credit to you, Sherl, she really is," she said. "It's a shame she didn't like me. I was actually quite fond of her." Sherlock glanced over at Elspeth, watching her sleep momentarily. Her eyelashes fluttered when she breathed out. She hadn't left the hospital since Sherlock had been brought it. "You lied to me," Janine continued softly. Sherlock looked back at her. "You lied and lied."

"I exploited the fact of our connection," Sherlock corrected.

"_When_?" Janine demanded. He frowned at her. "Just _once_ would've been nice."

"Oh." Sherlock's eyes shifted from side to the side. He felt a bit uncomfortable. "I was waiting until we got married."

"That was never going to happen," Janine said, shaking her head and standing up. "Got to go. I'm not supposed to keep you talking." She leaned forwards, gently kissing Sherlock's forehead, and wiped the lipstick off his skin with her thumb. "And also I have an interview with The One Show and I haven't made it up yet." Janine didn't talk again until she reached the door, where she paused and turned back to him. "You shouldn't have lied to me. I know what kind of man you are . . . but we could have been friends."

Janine smiled at him and Sherlock pressed his lips together, feeling guilty. He hadn't been very fair to her.

"I'll give your love to John and Mary," Janine promised, closing the door behind her. Reaching out, Sherlock lowered his morphine dosage.

"You can stop pretending now," Sherlock announced. Her eyes flickering open, Elspeth straightened up in her seat and scowled at the door. She never stretched out when she slept. She curled up like a cat, making herself as small as possible in what Sherlock fondly referred to as her nest – she had always been the same.

"What a bitch," Elspeth muttered. "We could have been friends," she repeated in an Irish accent, mimicking Janine. "_Ugh_."

"You've been here all night," Sherlock commented, looking at her. Elspeth grinned.

"Yeah, you almost had me worried."

Sherlock's lips twitched into a small smile as he gazed at his daughter for a few seconds. "What's that?" he asked her, gesturing towards the bag at her feet. Elspeth's grin widened and she picked it up, setting it on the edge of Sherlock's bed carefully. He opened it. The bag was full of his clothes. "Where did you get these?"

"From home, duh," Elspeth teased. "I asked John to get them last night. I didn't think you'd want to leave in your hospital gown."

Sherlock grinned back.

* * *

"I don't know how much sense you'll get out of him," John said as he and Lestrade walked up the stairs. "He's drugged up, so he's probably babbling." Lestrade grinned, reaching into his pocket and taking his phone out. "Oh, they won't let you use that in here, you know."

"No, I'm not going to use the phone," Lestrade told him. "I want to take a video."

John grinned back at Lestrade, who laughed to himself. It was cruel really, taking videos of Sherlock when he was drugged up and vulnerable, but the younger man caused him so many problems that Lestrade really couldn't help it. It was his revenge. He probably had some embarrassing photos of Elspeth when she was young tucked away somewhere . . .

Opening the door to Sherlock's room, John and Lestrade stopped when they both saw that the bed was empty. The chair Elspeth had occupied was vacant as well. John looked around the room. His eyes widened with shock when he realised that the window was open, the blind swaying in the breeze.

"Oh Jesus," he muttered. John and Lestrade exchanged a look.

* * *

The glass was cool in her hands. Elspeth gazed down at the water silently, Sherlock sitting next to her and eating his plateful of pasta with his morphine on a stand next to him. Their waiter had given them a strange look when Sherlock and Elspeth walked in, his eyes lingering on the morphine drip, but Elspeth had given him such a dark look that he didn't say anything. Other than the pair of them sitting side by side, there were no other customers in the restaurant.

The door at the far end of the room opened, Magnussen striding towards them. "Shouldn't you be in hospital?" he asked Sherlock.

"I _am_ hospital," Sherlock said. He didn't look up from his plate. "This is the canteen."

Elspeth reluctantly looked up at Magnussen from underneath her eyelashes, relieved to see his eyes on Sherlock.

"Is it?"

"In my opinion, yes. Have a seat." Sherlock gestured towards the seat opposite him with his fork, Magnussen thanking him as he sat down. Elspeth recoiled in her seat slightly. It didn't go unnoticed by either of the men. "I've been thinking about you," Sherlock told Magnussen.

"I've been thinking about _you_," Magnussen returned calmly.

Sherlock smiled slightly, reaching across to the morphine control and pushing the button three times, ignoring the disapproving look Elspeth gave him. "Really?" there was a pause while Sherlock let the morphine set in. "I want to see Appledore, where you keep all the secrets, all the files, everything you've got on everyone. I want you to invite me," he said.

"What makes you think I'd be so careless?"

"Oh, I think you're a lot more 'careless' than you let on."

"Am I?" Magnussen asked softly. He leaned forwards. Elspeth's hands slid from the table to her lap, clenching nervously.

"It's the dead-eye stare that gives it away," Sherlock said. He unclasped his hands, which were on the table in front of him, and slowly lifted them, reaching out to Magnussen. "Except it's not dead-eyed, is it?" Both Magnussen and Elspeth watched in silence as Sherlock carefully took his glasses from him. "You're reading."

Elspeth tore her eyes from Sherlock, looking at Magnussen, who continued to watch Sherlock. As if feeling her gaze on him, Magnussen turned to her then. His chilling gaze made her fists clench even more, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. He smirked.

". . . they're just ordinary spectacles," Sherlock said, confused.

"Yes, they are," Magnussen agreed. _Pressure point: Morphine (add to file)_. Smirking, he reached out and flicked the pasta on Sherlock's plate out of the way, unearthing a black olive. "You underestimate me, Mr Holmes." He ate the olive, then dabbed his fingers into Elspeth's glass of water before taking his glasses from Sherlock.

"Impress me, then," Sherlock said. "Show me Appledore."

"Everything's available for a price," Magnussen told him, chewing on the olive thoughtfully. Sherlock met his eyes. "Are you making an offer?"

"A Christmas present," Sherlock said.

"And what are you giving me for Christmas, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock smiled. "My brother."

* * *

While Sherlock made a deal with Magnussen, Lestrade and John searched London for the detective, asking people if they had any idea where he – and possibly Elspeth – would've gone. Lestrade knew of three places Sherlock would be – Parliament Hill, Camden Lock, and Dagmar Court.

Mycroft added two more to the list – "There's the blind greenhouse in Kew Gardens and the leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery," he'd told Lestrade while John went back to 221B. Mary spoke to Anderson, who insisted that Sherlock would be at Leinster Gardens. She didn't tell John as she get on the train and made her way there. She and Sherlock had stuff to talk about . . .

"Behind the clock face of Big Ben," Mrs Hudson piped up suddenly. John frowned at her, his pen poised over his notebook.

"I think he was probably joking."

"No! I don't think so!"

John knew it was pointless trying to correct Mrs Hudson. He had a small list in his notebook: Parliament Hill, Camden Lock, Dagmar Court, Kew Gardens, Hampstead Cemetry . . . and behind the clock face of Big Ben. Mary still hadn't got back to him about Anderson though. He'd tried to ring her but she didn't pick up.

The front door opened, John rising to his feet as Lestrade guided a sullen looking Elspeth into the hallway. "Look who I found wandering about," Lestrade said with a frown.

"Where the hell have you been?" John demanded. Elspeth didn't say anything. "Ellie, this isn't a joke! Sherlock got shot – he's gone _missing_ –" he cut himself off, a sudden thought coming to his mind. "Did you help him?" Elspeth pressed her lips together, shifting from one foot to the other. "Ellie, did you help Sherlock leave the hospital?"

"Yeah," Elspeth said reluctantly. "I don't see what the big deal is."

"Do you know where he is?" Lestrade asked her. She bit down on her bottom lip and shook her head.

"I need to wash my hair," she mumbled. Lestrade let go of her shoulder and John stepped to the side so Elspeth could pass him, sighing. Lestrade and John exchanged grim looks, following Elspeth upstairs.

"He _knew_ who shot him," John said as the bathroom door shut. "The bullet wound was here –" he pointed to his lower chest. "– so he was facing whoever it was."

Lestrade frowned. "So why not tell us?" he stopped frowning, realisation slowly dawning on him. "Because he's tracking them down," he said.

"Or protecting them," John said, turning to face him.

"Protecting the shooter? Why?"

"Well, protecting _someone_, then. But why would he care? He's _Sherlock_. Other than Elspeth, who would he bother protecting?" John asked as he sat down in a chair – _his _chair. He blinked. Thoughtfully, John patted the arms of his chair.

"Call me if you hear anything. Don't hold out on me, John," Lestrade said. John didn't respond. He still looked puzzled by the reappearance of his chair. "Call me, ok?"

"Yeah," John said distractedly. "Yeah, right."

Lestrade said goodbye to Mrs Hudson, called out to Elspeth, then left the living room. John stroked the arms of his chair with his thumbs, still frowning. Sherlock had moved the chair out of the living room, then brought it back in . . . it could've only meant one thing. He knew how Sherlock's mind worked.

"John? Need a cuppa?" Mrs Hudson offered, walking through to the kitchen. John half turned in his chair.

"Mrs Hudson . . ." he cleared his throat. "W – why does Sherlock think that I'll be moving back in here?" he asked her hesitantly.

"Oh, yes, he's put your chair back again, hasn't he? That's nice! Looks much better."

John was only half listening, his gaze fixed on the small table to his right. There was an ornate glass bottle within arm's reach, one that looked worryingly familiar, and John couldn't tear his eyes from it, even when his phone started to ring on the dining table.

"It's Sherlock, John. It's Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, holding the phone towards him. John didn't take it. "John! You _have_ to answer it!"

Elspeth reached out and carefully took the phone from Mrs Hudson, declining the call. Her hair was damp. "Could you give us a minute please, Mrs Hudson?" she asked quietly.

"Ellie, that was –"

"Yes I know who it was, Mrs Hudson, now could you please leave us alone?" Elspeth snapped, her voice rising. Mrs Hudson sighed and tutted, but left the room. Elspeth lowered her voice when she spoke to John. "He's at Leinster Gardens," she said softly. "If we go now, we'll make it there before . . ." her voice trailed off. John nodded. He knew who she was talking about.

"How long have you known?" he asked her, his voice barely audible even though the room was completely silent. His fists clenched on his lap, his gaze on the perfume bottle.

"Since this afternoon." Elspeth bit down on her bottom lip, ducked her head, and brushed her wet hair behind her ear. "We don't have to go."

"No," John said. "No, we do."

He didn't meet Elspeth's eyes when he stood up and strode out of the living room, Elspeth following a few paces behind. The perfume bottle on the table Clair – de – la – Lune. It was Mary's perfume.

* * *

Thank you LoverofWords22, GeorgyannWayson, xXSchmayXx, ScissorLuv143, Ms Moonshoes Potter, KirstyLaura, Aimee, Adrillian1497, xoxoChairGossipxoxo, tardislover1, Kayla, Bookworm45669, avalonwhite, WerewolfHybrid31, fmxc17, nakari ash, bellechat, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, AnythingBut, Guest, guest, daisytaylor, EICochrane, Darcy, pax am days, ElizabethCullen08, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion and iwanttobeaneverdeen for reviewing!

A few issues were addressed by AnythingBut (I'm afraid I couldn't PM you as I think you may have disabled yours) that I would like to discuss - I truly appreciate the constructive criticism but there are some things I would like to say:

A lot of the story is a transcript, and it is. But I do a put a lot of work into changing aspects or adding my original writing. I don't want to completely change the script of the show because it's an amazing, well thought out script that I only hope to add to with my original character.

Mary would use a silencer: I have no knowledge of guns. I should've done more research into it but I wasn't aware that she would use it, as when I'm following a transcript, sometimes details aren't included - I was therefore unaware she would've used one. However, I was under the impression that Mary didn't actually have any intention of shooting Magnussen and the reason she had a gun was to threaten/intimidate him. I could've done more research though.

Sherlock opening his eyes and whispering Mary's name is taken directly from the show, and the transcript. Like with the guns, I have little knowledge of surgeons and doctor's procedures, so I wasn't aware that Sherlock's momentary death would've been reported.

I hope this doesn't come across as rude or defensive, because those aren't my intentions. I honestly appreciate the criticism and I'll make sure to work on the things that you mentioned, but I also felt that I should offer an explanation as to why I made the choices I did.


	19. Chapter 19

_**19.**_

Mary walked towards Leinster Gardens silently, her footsteps echoing in the empty street. A homeless man squatted with his back to the wall at the corner of the road, lifting his head only slightly when Mary walked past him.

"Spare any change, love?" he asked her hoarsely. Mary didn't stop.

"No."

"Oh come on, love. Don't be like all the rest."

Sighing, Mary turned and dropped a handful of loose change into the tub by his feet. His hand shot out before she could pull away, looking up. It was Elspeth's friend, Bill.

"Rule one of looking for Sherlock 'olmes . . ." he put a phone into her hand. ". . . 'e finds _you_."

Mary snatched her wrist away. "You're working for Sherlock now," she said, her eyebrows raised. She couldn't say she was surprised.

"Keeps me off the streets, dunnit?"

"Well . . ._ no_."

Bill gave Mary a sour look and she shrugged at him, turning away when the phone in her hand started to ring. She knew who it was. "Where are you?" she demanded.

"Can't you see me?" Sherlock asked her on the other end of the phone.

"Well, what am I looking for?"

"The lie – the lie of Leinster Gardens, hidden in plain sight," Sherlock told her, Mary taking several steps backwards so she could get a better view of the houses in front of her. "Hardly anyone notices. People live here for years and never see it, but if you _are_ what I think you are, it'll take you less than a minute. The houses, Mary, look at the houses."

"How did you know I'd come here?"

"I knew you'd talk to the people no one else would bother with." Anderson, and his female colleague, who had teased Anderson about 'stalking' Sherlock. Mary knew that John and Lestrade wouldn't bother consulting them, only the people she thought were close to Sherlock – or as close as one could be to Sherlock Holmes. She couldn't help but laugh.

"I thought I was being clever," she told him with a smirk.

"You're _always_ clever, Mary. I was relying on that. I planted the information for you to find," Sherlock replied on the other end of the phone. Mary, who had been strolling down the street, stopped and faced the two houses in front of them. They looked remarkably similar to the other houses either side of them.

"What am I looking at?"

"No door knobs, no letter box . . ." Mary took a few steps forwards and she looked closely at the houses. ". . . painted windows. Twenty three and twenty four Leinster Gardens, the empty houses," Sherlock finished. "They were demolished years ago to make way for the London Underground, a vent for the old steam trains. Only the very front section of the house remains. It's just a façade." Sherlock drew in a deep breath. "Remind you of anyone, Mary? A façade."

Suddenly, a picture was projected onto the front of the two houses – it was a photograph of Mary on her wedding day, wearing her headdress and veil, beaming at the camera. Mary stared at the image in shock and craned her neck over her shoulder, trying to work out where the image was being projected from.

"Sorry," Sherlock said insincerely. "I never _could_ resist a touch of drama. Do come in. It's a little cramped."

Mary gazed at the projected image for a few more seconds, her mouth open in disbelief. "Do you own this place?" she asked Sherlock finally, walking forwards.

"I won it in a card game with the Clarence House Cannibal. Nearly cost me my kidneys, but fortunately I had . . ." Sherlock took in a deep breath, almost like he was in pain. ". . . a straight flush." One of the adjacent doors was slightly ajar, a light streaming out from behind it, and Mary pushed that one open, peering into the corridor. "Quite a gambler, that woman."

Walking into the empty corridor, Mary's eyes focused on the shape at the other end sitting on a chair. It was too dark for her to see who it was but she wasn't stupid. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"Mary Morstan was stillborn in October 1972. Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery where – five years ago – you acquired her name and date of birth and thereafter her identity. That's why you don't have 'friends' from before that date."

Mary didn't reply as she started to walk down the corridor, towards the figure in the shadows at the end.

"It's an old enough technique, known to the kinds of people who can recognise a skip-code on sight, have extraordinarily retentive memories . . ."

She stopped about halfway down the corridor, shaking her head. "You were very slow," she told him.

"How good a shot _are_ you?"

Mary reached into her pocket, taking her pistol from inside her coat. She cocked it. "How badly do you want to find out?" she asked him.

"If I die here, my body will be found in a building with your face projected on the front of it. Even Scotland Yard could get _somewhere_ with that," Sherlock sneered, Mary nodding with agreement. She really wasn't stupid. "I want to know how good you are." Sherlock's voice was low, encouraging. "_Go on_. Show me. The doctor's wife must be a _little_ bit bored by now."

That was all Mary needed to hear; she took a fifty pence coin from her bag, flicked it high into the air and fired at it. It was easy, too _easy_. Her lips tilted into the slightest of smiles as the coin landed on the ground next to her. She didn't have to check it to know that there was a bullet hole straight through the middle, her chest swelling with pride. Domestic life was nice but it was so _boring_ sometimes.

"May I see?" Sherlock's voice asked from behind her, hanging up the phone. Mary wasn't surprised. She looked between Sherlock and the figure in the shadows, then laughed softly, dangerously.

"It's a dummy," she said. "I suppose it was a fairly obvious trick." Throwing the phone down, Mary took a few steps forwards, put her foot on the coin and slid it across the ground towards Sherlock. He stopped it with his foot.

"And yet," Sherlock said, his voice tight with pain as he straightened up, the coin in his hand. "over a distance of six feet, you failed to make a kill shot." Sweat rolled down his forehead. He felt slightly unsteady. "Enough to hospitalise me, not enough to kill me. That wasn't a _miss_." He smiled. "That was _surgery. _I'll take the case."

Mary had been gazing at her feet while Sherlock spoke, but her eyes snapped up suddenly. "_What_ case?"

"Yours. Why didn't you come to me in the first place?" he asked her angrily, like he was berating Elspeth. Mary's expression contorted with guilt, her eyes guarded but pleading, like she was afraid to show her emotion.

"Because John can't ever know that I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him forever – and, Sherlock, I will _never _let that happen," she said in a low voice. "_Please_ understand. There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening."

Sherlock turned away. He didn't meet her eyes. "Sorry," he muttered, putting his hand on one of the switches on the fuse box. "Not _that _obvious a trick."

He flicked the switch and light flooded through the corridor, Mary filled with dread as she realised what had happened. Elspeth appeared in the doorway to the house silently, her sleeves tugged down to her knuckles and her eyes sad as she gazed down the corridor, but not at Mary. Behind her. Mary turned slowly. It wasn't a dummy at the end of the corridor. It was John – his hair was ruffled, his jacket had the collar popped to make it look like Sherlock's, and he gazed back at Mary with no expression in his eyes.

They stared at each other for a long moment, neither one of them speaking. When John had first seen that perfume bottle on the table at 221B, he was _desperate _to believe it wasn't Mary's. She wasn't like that. She was _different_.

"Baker Street," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, his voice quiet. "_Now_."

* * *

"What _is_ going on?" Mrs Hudson asked when Sherlock, Elspeth, John and Mary trudged into the living room of 221B – Sherlock looked absolutely awful, snapping at her when she told him she didn't have any morphine, both Elspeth and Mary looked like they had been crying, and John looked positively murderous.

"_Bloody_ good question," John said savagely.

"The Watsons are about to have a domestic, and fairly quickly, I hope, because we've got work to do," Sherlock said, looking at his friend.

"Oh I have a better question," John said, pacing towards Mary and looking at her with pure anger in his eyes. She recoiled slightly. "Is _everyone_ I've ever met a psychopath?"

Sherlock lifted his eyes thoughtfully, Mary pursing her lips together. Elspeth bit down on her bottom lip.

"Yes," Sherlock finally said. "Good that we've settled that. Anyway, we –"

"_SHUT UP!"_ John yelled at Sherlock at the top of his voice, making Mrs Hudson jump. Even Elspeth flinched, her eyes on the floor as she blinked back the tears. "And _stay_ shut up," John continued in a quieter tone. "because this is _not_ funny. Not this time." John's lips twisted into an angry, humourless smile.

"I didn't say it was funny," Sherlock said quietly.

John looked at Mary. "You," he said. He turned to face her, his expression one of barely controlled anger. "What have I ever done . . . my whole life . . . to deserve you?"

Sherlock leaned against the doorframe. "_Everything_."

"Sherlock, I've told you – shut up."

"Oh I mean it, seriously," Sherlock continued despite John's anger. "_Everything_ – everything you've done is what you did."

"Sherlock, one more word and you will not need morphine," John threatened, his voice soft and dangerous.

"You were a doctor who went to war," Sherlock said. John's eyes were fixed on him, his breathing rapid. "You're a man who couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high." He paused. "That's me, by the way. Hello. Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel."

"It was my _husband's _cartel," Mrs Hudson retorted. "I was just typing."

"And exotic dancing," Elspeth mumbled. In different circumstances, she would've smiled. It would've been hilarious to know that Mrs Hudson used to be an exotic dancer. Now, it was just sad.

"John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people so is it _truly_ such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?"

John grimaced silently, ducked his head, and pointed towards Mary at the other side of the room. "But she wasn't supposed to _be _like that," he whispered, his voice full of suppressed tears. He felt like a small child as he looked up at Sherlock. "Why is she like that?" he asked, lost, hurt. Mary was supposed to be different.

"Because you _chose_ her," Sherlock said. John stared back at him. Elspeth lifted her head.

"Why is everything," John said conversationally. "always –" his voice rose suddenly. "_MY FAULT?_" he shouted, kicking a dining chair so hard that it fell, skidding across the room. Mrs Hudson cried out and scurried away, Sherlock and Elspeth flinching. Only Mary managed to stay calm.

"John, listen. Be calm and answer me. What _is_ she?" Sherlock asked, his words precise.

John looked at Mary. "My lying wife?"

"No. What is she?"

"And the woman who's carrying my child who has lied to me since the day I met her?"

"No. Not in this flat, not in this room. Right here, right now, what _is_ she?"

His humourless smile returned, his eyes locked on Mary. "Ok," John said. He glanced at Sherlock over his shoulder. "_Your_ way. _Always_ your way." He picked up a dining chair, slamming it down so it faced the two armchairs. "Sit," he ordered.

". . . why?" Mary asked warily.

"Because that's where they sit," John said in a tight whisper. "The people who come in here with their stories. Th – the clients – that's all _you_ are now, Mary. You're a client. This is where you sit and talk and this is where we sit and listen, then we decide if we want you or not."

John sat down in his armchair, refusing to meet anyone's eyes as he adjusted the cushion behind him. Sherlock squeezed Elspeth's shoulder as he passed her, giving Mary a small nod and sitting in his own chair. Slowly, Elspeth followed him, perching on the arm and watching Mary as she took her seat on the dining chair. She put her bag on the ground, adjusted her coat, tugged on the legs of her trousers. Finally, Mary and John looked at each other.

Slowly, Mary reached down into her bag and took out a pen drive, placing it on the table by John's chair.

"A.G.R.A," Sherlock read. "What's that?"

"Er . . . my initials," Mary explained. John turned his head away from her. "Everything about who I was is on there." She spoke to John directly. "If you love me, don't read it in front of me."

"Why?"

Mary blinked back the tears in her eyes. "Because you won't love me when you've finished," she said softly. Her voice trembled. "And I don't want to see that happen." John sighed, snatched the pen drive from the table, and put it into his pocket. Elspeth gazed at Mary silently. "How much do you know already?" Mary asked Sherlock, avoiding Elspeth's eyes.

"By your skill set, you are – or were – an intelligence agent. Your accent is currently English but I suspect you are not. You're on the run from something, you've used your skills to disappear. Magnussen knows your secret, which is why you were going to kill him; and I assume you befriended Janine in order to get close to him."

"Oh – _you _can talk," Mary retorted. Sherlock smiled back at her, Elspeth rolling her eyes at the pair of them.

"_Look_ at you two," John said bitterly. "_You_ should have got married. You'd be a proper little family together." Sherlock blinked several times. Elspeth's eyes were filled with hurt as she turned to look at John, surprised he was angry with her as well. Then she realised. She knew before he did. They all knew before John did.

"The stuff Magnussen has on me, I would go to prison for the rest of my life," Mary said.

"So you were just going to kill him."

"People like Magnussen _should_ be killed. That's why there are people like me."

"Perfect," John remarked sarcastically. "So that's what you are? An assassin? How could I _not_ see that?"

"You _did _see that," Mary said. She hesitated before adding, ". . . and you married me. Because he's right." For once in his life, Sherlock seemed unhappy that he was correct, and Elspeth reached out to gently squeeze his arm. He covered her hand with his. His palm was sweaty. "It's what you like."

John gave her a stony-faced glare. Mary lowered her eyes.

"So, _Mary_ . . ." Sherlock said. He grimaced. "Any documents that Magnussen has concerning yourself, you want –" he grimaced painfully a second time. His hand tightened on Elspeth's. "– extracted and returned."

"Why would you help me?" Mary asked him.

"Because . . . you saved my life."

Elspeth frowned, looking down at her father. ". . . what?"

"When I happened on you and Magnussen –" he paused, taking in several noisy, deep breaths. "– you had a problem. More specifically, you had a witness. The solution, of course, was simple. Kill us both and leave. However, sentiment got the better of you.

"One precisely-calculated shot to incapacitate me in the hope that it would buy you more time to negotiate my silence. Of course, you couldn't shoot Magnussen. On the night that both of us broke into the building, your own husband would become a suspect, so you calculated –" Sherlock's breath became deeper, more painful. ". . . that Magnussen . . . would use the fact of your involvement rather than sharing the information with the police . . . as is his M.O. And then you left the same way you came."

Mary looked up at Sherlock then, aware that John's eyes were on her.

"Have I missed anything?" Sherlock asked Mary.

"How did she save your life?" John demanded.

"She phoned the ambulance."

"_John_ phoned the ambulance," Elspeth told him, frowning. Sherlock shook her head.

"She phoned first. Neither of you found me until several minutes after I was shot, and left to you, I would have died. The average arrival time for a London ambulance is –"

"Did somebody call an ambulance?" a paramedic asked, suddenly running into the room. Elspeth blinked, reminded of the Monty Python sketch when the Spanish Inquisition would suddenly burst into the room with a yell of "NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!"

"Eight minutes," Sherlock finished. "Did you bring any morphine? I asked on the phone."

"We were told there was a shooting," the second paramedic said, puzzled.

"There _was_, last week," Sherlock said, taking his hand from Elspeth's and pressing his fingers to his pulse. He took in a sharp breath. "But I believe I'm bleeding internally and my pulse is very erratic. You may need to re-start my heart on the way." He pushed himself up from his chair, his knees buckling suddenly.

"Dad!" Elspeth cried, rushing to his side and grabbing an arm as John ran forwards, holding Sherlock up on the other side. Sherlock groaned.

"John?" the paramedics took the support from John and Elspeth, but Sherlock ignored them, staring at his friend. "John – Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust Mary. She saved my life."

"She shot you," John said quietly. Sherlock grimaced.

"Er – mixed messages, I grant you. Ellie –" Sherlock cried out, starting to fall, and Elspeth grabbed his hand quickly as the paramedics lowered him to the floor. "Ellie," he said again. "Maybe I'll stay in hospital this time."

* * *

In the corridor of the hospital, Elspeth leaned against the wall with her hands in her pockets and her eyes staring blankly at the floor in front of her.

"John's probably going to spend a couple of nights with us," she said quietly, not looking up when Mary walked down the corridor towards her. "He needs space." Elspeth's hair fell over her shoulder, a curtain between her and Mary, but she brushed it back, tucking it behind her ear. "Thanks, by the way. For calling the ambulance that night."

"You're not mad at me?" Mary asked warily, watching Elspeth.

"Oh I am majorly pissed," Elspeth told her. She looked up, giving her that dangerous, humourless smile John had worn most of the night. Her eyes were soft, though. Scared. "But my Dad isn't dead, and he seems to forgive you for some weird reason . . . so I kind of do as well." She shrugged, giving Mary a sideways glance. "Only because you called the ambulance."

Mary nodded. "Thank you," she said softly.

"Don't," Elspeth said. She shook her head. "Please . . . don't thank me." There was a long pause as Mary sat down in the chair next to Elspeth, the younger woman's brow furrowing while she thought. "So . . . are you actually an assassin?" she asked Mary finally.

"Yes."

". . . how much do you get paid?"

"More than you could afford," Mary replied with a small smile in Elspeth's direction. Elspeth didn't see it. She continued to gaze at the floor, her eyes glazed over. Sherlock was in hospital, John was nowhere to be found – he'd stalked off shortly after the doctor's reported their progress to him and Elspeth, muttering something about needing space – and Mary was not the woman any of them thought she was. Somehow, Elspeth could tell that things weren't going to be normal ever again.

* * *

Thank you pax am days, LittleGee, Adrillian1497, Bookworm45669, Lori, Ms Moonshoes Potter, GeorgyannWayson, Guest, bellechat, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, ScissorLuv143, KD, LoverofWords22, AnythingBut, EICochrane, fmxc17 and Elizabeth Cullen08 for reviewing!

I have seen the episode; I've watched all three series' of Sherlock - in His Last Vow, it was not clear to me that Mary was using a silencer; perhaps it's because I have no knowledge of guns. I also reread the transcript and Sherlock whispers Mary's name off screen, so I apologise for that mistake. In the near future I will try to revise that scene. However, at this point in time, I would honestly appreciate it if we could move on from the mistakes I have made - not because I want to ignore them, but because I would like to move on so I can improve my writing. As I said before, I do genuinely appreciate the criticism and it isn't my intention to come across as rude or defensive. This is just me explaining the choices I made.


	20. Chapter 20

_**20.**_

"Oh, dear God, it's only two o'clock. It's been Christmas Day for at least a _week_ now."

The Holmes family cottage was covered in Christmas decorations; Elspeth had strung lights around the tree, on the curtain rail, and around a picture frame while Christmas carols played incessantly on the radio. The tree had been set up in the living room and Timothy Holmes had only just finished clearing away the stray wrapping paper and bits of sellotape.

"How can it only be two o'clock? I'm in agony," Mycroft moaned with the same despairing tone, rubbing one hand wearily against his brow. Laughing and wearing a paper crown that had fallen out of her cracker, Elspeth wrapped her arms around Mycroft's chest from behind.

"Cheer up, Uncle Mycroft," she said happily. "It's Christmas!" she kissed his cheek and Mycroft scowled, batting her away. Sherlock looked up from his paper – **Lord Smallwood suicide: Shamed peer takes own life; 63 year old dies following letters scandal** – and smiled slightly at his daughter, watching her jump up on the kitchen counter, perching there despite Wanda's tutting.

"Mikey, is this _your_ laptop?" she asked Mycroft, pointing down at the laptop on the table. It was half obscured by a chopping board on top of it. Looking down, Mycroft let out a long, suffering sigh.

"On which depends the security of the free world, yes –" he gave his mother a sarcastic smile. "– and you've got potatoes on it."

Elspeth laughed. Wanda rolled her eyes, unamused. "Well, you shouldn't leave it lying around if it's so important," she scolded.

"Why are we doing this? We never _do_ this."

"We are here because Sherlock is home from hospital and we are _all_ very happy," Wanda told him sternly. Mycroft's smile was fake and insincere.

"Am _I _happy too?" he asked her. "I haven't checked."

"Behave, Mike."

"Yeah, Mike, behave," Elspeth piped up, grinning when Mycroft turned and glowered at her. "You're such a Scrooge this time of year."

"Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end," he sneered at his mother. She ignored his sarcastic tone, used to dealing with him and Sherlock, and turned around when Bill offered her a glass of punch.

"Oh! Thank you, dear." Wanda looked closely at him. "Not absolutely sure why you're here," she added doubtfully.

"I invited him," Elspeth said with a smile. "You said it was alright, remember?"

"I'm Mr 'olmes' protégé, Mrs 'olmes. When 'e dies, I get all 'is stuff, an' 'is job," Bill explained, much to Wanda's shock. Elspeth frowned.

"No you don't," she said.

"Oh. Well, I 'elp out a bit."

"Closer," Sherlock said dryly. He didn't look up from his newspaper.

"If 'e _does_ get murdered or something –"

"Bill," Elspeth said. Wanda and Mycroft were looking at her friend with matching appalled expressions, and she thought her grandmother might have a heart attack if they continued to talk about Sherlock being murdered. Bill looked round at her. "Shut up."

"Elspeth!" Wanda scolded.

"Sorry, Nan," Elspeth said sheepishly. "Bill, I would very much appreciate it if you were to shut your mouth and cease talking. If my Dad does ever get murdered, I'll be the one to inherit his stuff and job."

"It's always lovely when you bring your friends round," Mycroft said to Sherlock.

"_Stop_ it, you," Wanda said. "Somebody's put a bullet in my boy and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous." Sherlock and Elspeth's gazes met across the room then, quickly looking away from each other when Wanda turned, spotting something on the counter. "Ah. This was for Mary. I'll be back in a minute."

"We'd all hate to see her be monstrous," Elspeth mumbled behind her grandmother's back, nibbling on a biscuit. Bill leaned on the counter next to her.

"You look real pretty today, Els," he told her. She was wearing a new dress from her grandparents with boots that wouldn't have looked out of place on a biker and her hoodie. Elspeth grinned at Bill.

"You've told me that three times now," she teased. Taking her phone out of her pocket, she frowned. "Oh, er – excuse me . . ." shoving the half eaten biscuit into Bill's hand, she muttered something under her breath and ducked out of the kitchen through the side door, disappearing from sight. Sherlock watched her go.

* * *

Elspeth had been let loose in the living room with the Christmas decorations as well. Mary leaned back in the armchair, pulled her blanket a bit closer, and smiled with content as she turned the page of the book she was reading. Timothy hummed while he tended to the fire.

"Ah, Mary," Wanda said, walking in with a mug in her hand. "There you are – cup of tea. Now, if father starts making little humming noises, just give him a little poke. That usually does it."

Mary laughed, Timothy sighing good naturedly as his wife made a joke at his expense.

"Did _you_ write this?" Mary asked Wanda, holding the book up and showing her the cover – _The Dynamics of Combustion_, it was titled.

"Oh, that silly old thing. You mustn't read that. Mathematics must seem _terribly_ fatuous now!" Wanda said, shaking her head. She turned and walked towards her husband, who had started to hum again. "Now, no humming, you!" she patted his backside affectionately, husband and wife sharing a brief, but meaningful smile before she left. Mary smiled at them as well.

"Complete flake, my wife, but happens to be a genius," Timothy told her.

"She was a mathematician?"

"Gave it all up for children. I could never bear to argue with her. I'm something of a moron myself. But she's –" Timothy paused, looking over his shoulder to make sure that no one was within earshot. "Unbelievably hot!"

"Oh my God," Mary said, realisation dawning on her. "You're the _sane_ one, aren't you?"

The living room door opened, John looking between Timothy and Mary awkwardly. Nervous, Mary flicked the book on her lap to a random page and pretended to read, just to avoid meeting his gaze.

"Oh, er – er – do you two need a moment?" Timothy asked.

"If you don't mind."

"No, of course not. I'll – I'll go see if I can help with . . . something or another." Timothy shut the door behind him, leaving John and Mary in an awkward silence that neither one knew how to break. He took a step towards her, then seemed to change his mind and walked towards the fire.

"So, are you ok?" John asked Mary.

"Oh! Are we doing conversation today?" she retorted, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "It really is Christmas!" her defensive attitude dropped slightly when John reached into his pocket, taking out the pen drive. She stared at it. "Now? Seriously? Months of silence and we're going to do _this_ . . ._ now_?" John nodded. "Have you read it?"

John didn't answer. He turned the pen drive around in his fingers repeatedly, not taking his eyes off it, then clasped his fist around it. "Would you come here a moment?"

"No. Tell me. Have you?"

"_Just _. . ." John paused. "Come here," he pleaded. Mary grimaced unhappily, unwrapping the blanket from around her and starting to rise to her feet. It was somewhat difficult considering she was very pregnant, but she waved off John's attempt to help her, too stubborn to accept it. She walked across the room and stopped in front of John. She couldn't look him in the eye.

"I've thought long and hard about what I want to say to you," he said in a tight whisper. "These are prepared words, Mary. I've chosen these words with care."

"Ok," Mary said softly.

John cleared his throat, played with the pen drive in his fist, then finally looked up at her. "The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future . . . are my privilege. It's all I have to say. It's all I need to know," he said firmly, both of them looking at the pen drive in his hand – John with determination, Mary tearfully. He dropped it into the fireplace. "No, I didn't read it."

Tears rolled down Mary's cheeks as she gazed at him disbelieving. "You don't even know my name," she choked out.

"Is Mary Watson good enough for you?"

"Oh my God, yes!" Mary sobbed, more tears escaping when John smiled – actually _smiled_ – at her. She wrapped her arms around him, letting herself cry a bit more as her husband held her close, his embrace tight and warm and familiar. It was like they had never been apart.

* * *

Elspeth, it seemed, had disappeared completely. Sherlock did a quick sweep of the garden as he and Mycroft wandered down the path, but he couldn't see her footsteps. She must've walked down the path as well.

"I'm glad you've given up on the Magnussen business," Mycroft told Sherlock. "I'm still curious, though. He's hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you . . . hate him?"

"Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets. Why don't _you_?"

"He never causes too much damage to anyone important. He's far too intelligent for that. He's a business-man, that's all, and occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil – not a dragon for you to slay." Mycroft paused to take a drag from his cigarette, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

"A dragon slayer," he said thoughtfully. "Is that what you think of me?" he also took a drag from his cigarette, inhaling deeply.

Mycroft also smiled. "No, it's what you think of yourself," he said, his tone almost fond as he glanced at his brother.

"Are you two smoking?" Wanda demanded crossly from behind them. Both the Holmes boys whirled around, frantically holding their cigarettes behind their backs while they looked at her guiltily.

"No!" Mycroft denied quickly; Sherlock simultaneously blurted out, "It was Mycroft."

Wanda gave her boys a suspicious look, not entirely convinced by their protests, and then shut the door behind her as she walked back inside. Smirking like a schoolboy who had got away with doing something naughty, Sherlock blew out a long trail of smoke in the direction of the door. Mycroft rolled his eyes at his little brother.

"I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline," he told Sherlock.

"I decline your kind offer."

"I shall pass on your regrets."

"What was it?" Sherlock asked him.

"MI6 – they want to place you back into Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months."

Sherlock had started to raise his cigarette to his lips as Mycroft spoke, but lowered in surprise. "Then why don't you want me to take it?" his tone was slightly suspicious. He and Mycroft never took care of each other, not in the conventional way siblings were supposed to. Mycroft's outright refusal to put his brother in danger surprised him.

"It's . . . tempting," Mycroft admitted. "But on balance, you have more utility closer to home."

Utility. Sherlock wanted to snort at that. "And Ellie would never forgive you," he told Mycroft, who smiled.

"I would hate to be on the receiving end of your daughter's wrath," he said. He took in a drag from his cigarette, frowning when it made him cough. "This isn't agreeing with me. I'm going in."

"You need _low_ tar. You still smoke like a beginner," Sherlock said snidely. It wouldn't be a proper conversation if one of them didn't sneer at the other.

Mycroft ignored him, strolling to the door and stopping when he reached it. "Also," Mycroft said. He didn't turn around. "Your loss would break my heart."

Spluttering, Sherlock coughed several times as he tried to comprehend what Mycroft had just said to him.

"What the _hell_ am I supposed to say to that?" Sherlock demanded incredulously.

"Merry Christmas?"

"You _hate_ Christmas."

"Yes," Mycroft agreed, his lips twitching into a small smile. "Perhaps there was something in the punch."

"Clearly. Go and have some more."

* * *

Elspeth was escorted up the stairs by a tall, silent man in a suit – one of Magnussen's many security guards. Her eyes were wide as she took in the opulence of her surroundings, the paper crown she'd been wearing folded and crinkling in her hoodie pocket. She'd received a phone call from an unknown number, Magnussen dryly suggesting that she get into the helicopter seconds before it arrived, landing in the field down the road from the cottage. No one told her what was going on.

The room she was led into was large and spacious, a curved white sofa facing a glass wall. The security guard left Elspeth there, walking away without a word.

"Oh, bye then," she said sarcastically.

Sudden yelling made Elspeth jump, and she turned around quickly, facing the glass wall behind her. Her eyes widened. There, on the wall, was the footage from the bonfire night months ago. Elspeth watched, her mouth open, as Sherlock rescued John from the fire. What surprised her the most, however, was that Sherlock then left John's side and threw himself further into the bonfire so he could pull Elspeth out.

She couldn't remember much from that night. Elspeth could vaguely recall that someone had stuck a needle into the side of her neck, but she was otherwise uncertain as to what had happened after that. Elspeth didn't even know that Sherlock had saved her.

Tilting her head to the side, Elspeth took a step closer to the glass screen and frowned, watching the continuous loop of footage. Why didn't she know that Sherlock helped her? Why hadn't anyone told her?

Curious, Elspeth reached out and touched the screen with the tip of her finger. She jumped when the footage suddenly got smaller and slid to the side.

"We mustn't touch what isn't yours," Magnussen scolded, standing behind her. Elspeth turned around quickly, her eyes widening as she gazed back at him sheepishly. Magnussen smirked at her. "Elspeth Holmes . . . I do hope you don't mind me pulling you away so rudely from your family dinner."

"How . . ." Elspeth paused and cleared her throat, looking over her shoulder at the screen. "How did you get this?"

"I have my ways," Magnussen replied with a smile. He strolled forwards, brushing past Elspeth. She shrunk back slightly. "It's quite amazing, isn't it? Fire often exposes pressure points."

Magnussen's finger swiped the screen and the footage enlarged again, filling the screen. Elspeth watched it again, turning away so she wouldn't have to see the desperation in her father's eyes as he threw himself into the fire. Why did she not remember that? If she had known what he had done, that he risked his life to save hers . . . she would've forgiven him sooner.

"Your family is truly a peculiar one," Magnussen continued when Elspeth remained silent. He stepped a bit closer to her, closing the space between them. "Everyone has a pressure point – one, maybe two. Your father has a rather large amount. I've never seen so many."

"You put John and I in the bonfire," Elspeth said finally. She looked up at Magnussen and tried not to shiver when he gazed back down at her with those dead eyes of his. "I can understand me, but why John?"

Magnussen smiled. His eyes were still flat. "There are warnings to always check your bonfires for hedgehogs, and John Watson does so resemble the creature, don't you think?"

Blinking, Elspeth frowned and turned away from Magnussen.

"Jim Moriarty," he said suddenly. She froze. "It's an awful thing that happened." Elspeth bit down on her bottom lip and clenched her fists, trying not to flinch when Magnussen reached out to brush her hair over her shoulder. His fingers brushed against her skin and, thoughtful, Magnussen deliberately curled his fingers around her neck. "Tell me, Miss Holmes, do you still think about it? Do you still have nightmares? I should imagine so."

Jerking away, Elspeth knocked Magnussen's hand from her throat and glowered at him angrily, her mouth open to snap at him. She was caught by surprise, however, when his own hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. He squeezed.

"Do you really that is wise?" Magnussen asked her. His tone was condescending as he looked at her over the rim of his glasses, his eyebrows raised. His hand was sweaty.

"Let go of me," Elspeth said stiffly.

"You're terribly frail, Miss Holmes, if you don't mind me saying. It must be so easy to take advantage of one such as yourself," Magnussen said, ignoring her. He tightened his grip around her wrist, his nails digging into her skin, and suddenly Elspeth felt panic coursing through her. In the club, still posing as Molly's boyfriend, Moriarty had grabbed her wrist, pinned it down against the bar . . .

"_Let go_."

Magnussen looked back at her for a few seconds more before releasing her wrist, watching her closely as she rubbed it with her other hand, refusing to meet his intrusive gaze. Finally Elspeth turned back to him, her eyes wide with fear. It was truly beautiful, in Magnussen's opinion. Fear made people so easy to control and manipulate.

"Why am I here?" Elspeth asked. Her voice trembled.

"Because I want you to be," Magnussen replied. Elspeth's eyes darted up to meet his again; she was confused. "Leverage, Miss Holmes, to ensure that your father and John Watson behave themselves."

"They're coming here?"

"You're just full of questions, aren't you?"

"And you're a disgusting man but you don't see me complaining about it," Elspeth snapped back before she could stop herself. It made Magnussen laugh softly.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "Yes, I can see why they keep you now." He walked past her, pouring himself a drink before sitting down on the curved sofa behind her. Elspeth turned around and frowned at him.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sherlock Holmes is the great detective, John Watson is the doctor and assistant," Magnussen said with a casual wave of his hand. He straightened up, looking at Elspeth closely. "What is it, exactly, you do to aid them? I wouldn't think a teenager on antidepressants, whose panic attacks are triggered by dead bodies, is very helpful when it comes to the cases your father inspects."

Elspeth opened her mouth, then shut it again. She'd always thought that she was helpful, that she made a worthwhile contribution to Sherlock's work, but now Magnussen had pointed it out, she began to doubt herself. Sherlock made deductions, John could save people's lives and she . . . well, Magnussen was right. She couldn't stand the sight of dead bodies, she wasn't as good as Sherlock at spotting things, and she didn't have any skills or talents that actually _helped_ them.

. . . Where they just letting her tag along because she was Sherlock's daughter?

_No_, Elspeth thought. _If I was rubbish, Dad would tell me . . . wouldn't he?_

"How rude of me," Magnussen said. Elspeth lifted her gaze to meet his. "Please, Miss Holmes, do take a seat. We won't be waiting for too long, I hope."

She was half tempted to refuse. Elspeth decided against it, however, when she realised that Magnussen's words had left her shaking. She took a few steps forwards, dropped onto the edge of the curved sofa as far from Magnussen as she could possibly be, and looked down at her feet. Magnussen and Elspeth sat in silence, and together, they waited.

* * *

Thank you Bookworm45669, meg, GeorgyannWayson, ScissorLuv143, pax am days, ArabellaBlack25, tardislover1, Ms Moonshoes Potter, Adrillian1497, bellechat, Aimee - for both your half reviews! - EICochrane, AnythingBut, iwanttobeaneverdeen, KirstyLauraBear and ElizabethCullen08 for reviewing!

Bleh . . . I dislike Magnussen, I hope that my characterisation of him is alright and accurate, he's a hard character to write! Not as hard as Moriarty, thankfully.

I am currently in the process of writing another AU, which - if I decide to post it, depending on the ideas/interest - would be a fic as opposed to a one shot. And, yes, I'm also going to give writing my own series 4 a go . . . it's a daunting task, but series 3 was left on such a good cliffhanger that I can't leave it there!


	21. Chapter 21

_**21.**_

Sherlock looked scarily calm as he strode into the room with John close behind, his eyes resting on Elspeth momentarily. She looked up at him from under her eyelashes, her brow furrowed slightly as she gazed at him from her seat on the sofa. Her eyes were glazed over. It was almost like she was suppressing her tears.

"I would offer you a drink but it's very rare and expensive," Magnussen told Sherlock, lifting his glass. Sherlock sat down on the sofa on Magnussen's right, putting the laptop between them and sliding it across the seat. Crossing his legs, Sherlock looked up at the screen behind John, whose eyes were flickering between Sherlock and Magnussen, confused.

"Oh. It _was_ you," Sherlock commented.

"Yes. Of course." John glanced over his shoulder, wondering what they were talking about, and did a double take when he saw the footage playing on the screen behind him. "Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr Holmes. The relationship with Janine I never believed. Anyway, you wouldn't care if it was exposed, would you? But look at how you care about John Watson . . . and your daughter."

John stared at the screen, his mouth open and his eyes wide. How . . . _Magnussen_ put him in the bonfire? He watched as Sherlock dragged him from under the bonfire, staring at Mary as she leaned over him, begging him to be alright.

"Your damsels in distress," Magnussen said with a small smirk. John turned around, his eyes burning with anger.

"_You_ . . ." he took in a deep breath, trying to supress his fury as he took a few steps towards Magnussen. ". . . put us in a fire . . . for _leverage?_"

"Interesting. Miss Holmes reacted in a much more rational manner." Elspeth raised her head at the mention of her name, but refused to meet Sherlock or John's eyes. "I'd never let you burn, Doctor Watson. I had people standing by. I'm not a murderer . . . unlike your wife," Magnussen added.

John's gaze turned murderous, his lips pressed together in a tight line, and he held Magnussen's gaze for a while before looking away. He glanced at Sherlock, who watched Magnussen with a thoughtful expression.

"Let me explain how leverage works, Doctor Watson," Magnussen said. He rose to his feet and walked towards the wall. "For those who understand these things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well . . . apart from me. Mycroft's pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock. Sherlock's pressure points are his daughter, and his best friend, John Watson. John Watson's pressure point is his wife. I own John Watson's wife . . . I own Mycroft." Magnussen turned and looked at Sherlock, returning to his seat. "_He's_ what I'm getting for Christmas."

Without looking at him, Sherlock pushed the laptop closer to Magnussen. "It's an exchange, not a gift. And Elspeth was not supposed to be involved," Sherlock added, giving Magnussen a sideways glance.

"Forgive me, but Miss Holmes was involved the moment we met," Magnussen replied. He turned his head slightly, his eyes resting on Elspeth. She could feel his gaze piercing into the side of her head but she refused to look back at him. Sherlock ignored the anger bubbling inside him, threatening to emerge, and stood up, taking a few steps away from Magnussen.

"The laptop is password protected," Sherlock said. Magnussen raised his eyebrows. "In return for the password, you will give me any material in your possession pertaining to the woman I know as Mary Watson."

"Oh, she's bad, that one. So many dead people. You should see what I've seen."

"I don't _need_ to see it," John said stiffly, his fists clenched by his sides.

"You might enjoy it, though. _I _enjoy it."

John held Magnussen's gaze for a few seconds, nodding and looking away a moment later. That man was vile.

"Then why don't you _show_ us?" Sherlock suggested nonchalantly.

"Show you Appledore? The secret vaults? Is that what you want?"

"I _want_ everything you've got on Mary," Sherlock told Magnussen, his tone hard, intense. Magnussen laughed at that – soft, breathy, almost genuine. It was a strange sound. He chuckled for several seconds, John's lips twisting into a frown and Elspeth's heart racing against her chest as she glanced at Sherlock.

"You know," Magnussen said when he stopped laughing. "I honestly expected something good."

"Oh, I think you'll find the contents of that laptop –"

"–include a GPS locator. By now, your brother will have noticed the theft, and security services will be converging on this house. Having arrived, they'll find top secret information in my hands and have every justification to search my vaults. They will discover further information of this kind and I'll be imprisoned. You will be exonerated, and restored to your smelly little apartment to solve crimes with your daughter, Mr and Mrs Psychopath."

John gritted his teeth and glared at Magnussen, while Elspeth's fists clenched on her lap. Sherlock's eyes flickered between the two of them.

"Mycroft has been looking for this opportunity for a long time," Magnussen said, gazing into his glass. "He'll be a very, _very_ proud big brother."

"The fact that you know it's going to happen isn't going to stop it."

Magnussen put his glass down. "Then why am I smiling?" he asked Sherlock.

"Because you're also a psychopath," Elspeth spat out, ignoring the glance her father gave her. Magnussen's smile widened as he turned his gaze on her. For the first time, Elspeth didn't look away; she kept her eyes on his, refusing to back down.

"Because Sherlock Holmes has made one _enormous_ mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves . . ." Magnussen looked at Sherlock thoughtfully. "And everything he holds dear," he finished softly. "Let me show you the Appledore vaults."

Magnussen walked across the room, into the study, with the others close behind. There were wooden doors at the side of his study. He put his hand on the handle and turned back to gaze at Sherlock, John and Elspeth.

"The entrance to my vaults. This is where I keep you all," he told them, slowly pulling open the doors. Elspeth shifted a bit closer to Sherlock and grabbed hold of his sleeve, staring ahead of herself even when he glanced down at her. All three of them looked uncertainly at the room – it was white, brightly lit, and plain. Incredibly plain.

". . . where are the vaults?" Elspeth asked hesitantly.

"Vaults?" Magnussen repeated. "_What_ vaults? There are no vaults beneath this building." He sat down in the chair in the centre of the room, the only piece of furniture there. "They're all in here." John blinked. Sherlock's eyes widened. Elspeth bit down on her bottom lip. "The Appledore vaults are my Mind Palace. You know about Mind Palaces, don't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed, his mouth open slightly. Elspeth's grip on his sleeve tightened as she stared at Magnussen.

"How to store information so you never forget it – by picturing it. I just sit here, I close my eyes and down I go to my vaults," Magnussen told them. "I can go anywhere inside my vaults, my memories . . . I'll look at the files on Mrs Watson." He raised both hands, flicking his fingers in front of him like he was going through a file, all while humming idly to himself. "This is one of my favourites. Oh, it's so exciting."

Sherlock lowered his head, shocked. John continued to stare at Magnussen.

"All those wet jobs for the CIA. She's gone a bit . . . freelance now. Bad girl." Magnussen sniggered. "Ah, she is so wicked. I can really see why you like her." He opened his eyes. "You see?"

"So there are no documents. You don't actually have anything here," John said. He couldn't wrap his head around it.

"Oh, sometimes I send out for something . . ." Magnussen glanced down at his watch. "If I really need it." Sherlock turned away, closing his eyes and gently pulling away from Elspeth. She stared up at him. "But mostly I just remember it all."

"I don't understand."

"You should have that on a T-shirt," Magnussen remarked.

"You just remember it all?" John demanded. Elspeth continued to gaze up at her father, hurt and confused. Why had he pulled away from her like that? She didn't understand either.

Magnussen gazed at Sherlock. "It's all about knowledge. _Everything_ is. Knowing is owning."

"But if you just _know_ it, then you don't have proof," John said, desperate. He was clutching at straws, they could all tell, because he didn't want to believe that Magnussen could _do_ something like that. He didn't want to believe it – _any_ of it.

"Proof? What would I need proof for? I'm in news, you moron. I don't have to prove it – I just have to print it," Magnussen sneered, Sherlock's gaze lowering as he realised just how badly he had miscalculated the situation. Elspeth blinked. She tasted blood when her teeth nicked the skin of her bottom lip. "Speaking of news," Magnussen continued, standing up. "You'll all be heavily featured tomorrow – trying to sell state secrets to me." he tutted disapprovingly. "Let's go outside. They'll be here shortly. Can't wait to see you arrested."

Sherlock turned to follow Magnussen but Elspeth grabbed hold of his sleeve a second time, staring up at him with tears in her eyes. There were words in her throat that she couldn't quite vocalise. Sherlock could see the fear and confusion and hurt in her eyes, and he felt so guilty because there was nothing he could to get them out of the mess he had put them in. Sherlock thought he was being clever. He thought that he could stop Magnussen . . . and he had only succeeded in making him more powerful.

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock pulled away from Elspeth again, ducking his head so she wouldn't see his eyes. She blinked back her tears.

"Sherlock, do we have a plan?" John asked quietly, but Sherlock was staring at the floor of the white room. His gaze was unfocused. "Sherlock," John said sternly. He hoped it would break through whatever his friend was thinking and get his attention, yet Sherlock remained still and unresponsive. Shaking his head, John turned and walked away.

"Dad," Elspeth whispered, her voice breaking. Sherlock shut his eyes, screwing them shut. His pain contorted with despair and it looked like he was trying not to cry. "Dad . . . what's going to happen?"

Sherlock still didn't say anything. Elspeth pressed her lips together and ducked her head for a moment, blinking back the tears, and then followed John out to the patio. Magnussen stood there as well, his face calm as he gazed up at the darkening sky of the early evening. Elspeth wiped a bit of blood off her lip with the back of her hand and stood next to John.

"They're taking their times, aren't they?" Magnussen asked.

"I still don't understand," John said.

"And there's the _back_ of the T-shirt."

Sherlock quietly walked onto the patio, stopping beside Elspeth. She looked at him.

"You just _know_ things," John said, turning to look at Magnussen. "How does _that_ work?"

"I just _love_ your little soldier face. I'd like to punch it." John stared back at Magnussen, his eyes wide – what was that supposed to mean? "Bring it over here a minute. Come on." John glanced at Sherlock who, reluctantly and without meeting his eyes, gave a short nod. "For Mary. Bring me your face."

John slowly took two steps towards Magnussen, Elspeth's eyes flickering between the two men as she frowned, trying to work out what was happening.

"Lean forward a bit and stick your face out," Magnussen instructed. After a bit of prompting, John did as he told, adjusting his footing and leaning forwards so his face wasn't far from Magnussen's, who leaned down. "Now, can I flick it? Can I flick your face?"

John snorted and shook his head in disbelief. Pursing his lips together, he raised his head and looked at Magnussen, slowly leaning forwards. He blinked instinctively when Magnussen flicked him on the cheek. It was a sharp shot of pain that made him twitch away. Magnussen laughed. He flicked John a second time.

"I just _love_ doing this. I could do it all day." Sherlock lowered his gaze. He didn't want to watch. Elspeth, however, couldn't stop herself. Her eyes were wide with horror. "It works like this, John. I know who Mary hurt and killed." _Flick_. "I know where to find people who hate her." _Flick – flick._ "I know where they live, I know their phone numbers." _Flick – flick_. John only tolerated the abuse because he knew he had no other choice. "All in my Mind Palace – _all _of it. I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down – and I _will_ . . . unless you let me flick your face." _Flick – flick – flick._ John flinched every time.

"This is what I do to people," Magnussen continued. _Flick_. "This is what I do to whole countries, just because I _know_."

"Stop it," Elspeth blurted out before she could stop herself, unable to watch Magnussen torment John anymore. She took a step towards them, her eyes wild with desperation. "Stop it – leave him _alone_."

"Miss Holmes," Magnussen said with a bright smile, the most emotion he had displayed all evening. "Would you like to take his place?"

"Ellie, don't," Sherlock said quietly. Elspeth ignored him and walked forwards, giving Magnussen a stony glare.

"Ellie, you don't have to do this," John told her under his breath. Magnussen turned to face her, flicking her head on the cheek, harder than he had been flicking John. Flinching, Elspeth jerked away without meaning to. Magnussen laughed softly, flicking her a second, then a third time.

"Can I do your eye?" he asked her. "See if you can keep it open?" Elspeth didn't respond, her lips pressed together in a tight line, and Magnussen flicked her on the eyebrow. She twitched, her eyes shutting. Sherlock felt his hands trembling when he watched the man hurt his daughter. "Come on," Magnussen urged. "For John, for Mary – for your _father_. Keep your eyes open."

He gave Elspeth a moment to compose herself. Looking away briefly, Elspeth looked at John, then at Sherlock, whose eyes – her stomach twisted when she realised this – were shining with unshed tears. He couldn't stand to see someone hurt her, and what Sherlock hated even more was that he could do nothing to stop it.

When Elspeth turned back to him, Magnussen smiled with bemusement and – _flick._ Elspeth flinched. She glared at him. Magnussen laughed. _Flick – flick – flick._ She was doing this for John, for Mary, for Sherlock. That was what Elspeth kept reminding herself while Magnussen continued to flick her on the eyebrow or just under her eye, tormenting her. Sherlock had to turn his head away, disgusted. John's fists clenched by his side. Neither of them had ever felt so protective over her.

"It's difficult, isn't it?" Magnussen asked cheerfully. "Janine managed it once." He smiled at Sherlock. "She makes the funniest noises."

It was all a blur after that. A helicopter soared over the roof while armed police marksmen ran towards the patio, a spotlight aimed directly at the four standing there. Elspeth felt herself stumbling backwards, supported only by Sherlock's hand on her arm, keeping her steady.

"Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Elspeth Holmes," Mycroft's voice blared out from a speaker on the helicopter. Elspeth felt her eyes watering from the spotlight. "Stand away from that man."

"Here we go, Mr Holmes!" Magnussen yelled.

"To clarify: Appledore's vaults only exist in your mind, nowhere else, just there," Sherlock said loudly.

"They're not real. They never _have_ been."

"Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Elspeth Holmes," Mycroft repeated. "Step _away._"

Magnussen walked forwards, waving his hands in the air. "It's fine, they're harmless!"

"Dad," Elspeth shouted. "Dad, what do we do?"

"_Nothing_!" Magnussen told her. "There's nothing to be done! Oh, I'm not a villain. I have no evil plan. I'm a business-man, acquiring assets. _You_ happen to be one of them!" John stared up at the helicopter, Elspeth's eyes filling with tears once more as she continued to watch Sherlock, who slowly turned to meet her gaze. "Sorry. No chance for you to be a hero _this_ time, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Elspeth Holmes, stand away from that man. Do it _now_."

"Oh, _do _your research," Sherlock said loudly, tearing his eyes from Elspeth's. He took a step closer to John and reached round, into John's coat pocket. "I'm not a hero –" Sherlock walked towards Magnussen. "– I'm a high functioning sociopath. _Merry Christmas._"

Raising John's pistol, Sherlock shot Magnussen straight through the head, then threw the gun onto the patio and turned towards the helicopter.

Elspeth would never forget the day that she saw her father shoot a man. She wouldn't forget the way she screamed and threw herself forwards, or the way that John grabbed her, holding her back before she could touch Sherlock. She wouldn't forget him telling them both to stay back, or giving his love to Mary. Elspeth would always remember the way Sherlock's face crumpled with despair, and the way he slowly sunk to his knees on the patio with his hands high in the air like he was surrendering, and the sinking feeling she felt in the pit of her stomach when she realised that after that night, she was probably never going to see her father ever again.

John held Elspeth in his arms as tightly as he could, stopping her from doing something stupid, and she screamed, sobbed, begged for her Dad. In the helicopter, Mycroft looked between his little brother and his niece with equal despair, slowly taking his headset.

"Oh Sherlock," he whispered softly, anguished. "What have you done?"

* * *

His apartment was dark when Mycroft returned. It was the early hours of the morning – one, maybe two AM, but Elspeth was wide awake and curled up on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around her as she gazed out the window, her eyes wide and unseeing. She turned at the sound of the front door shutting.

Mycroft was alone. "Where's John?" Elspeth asked first. Her voice was hoarse from screaming and crying. Her eyes stung.

"He's been allowed to return home," Mycroft said quietly. He took off his gloves and put them down on the table, then started to unbutton his coat.

"And Dad?"

"He'll remain in custody until morning, when he will be questioned . . ." Mycroft's voice trailed off momentarily. He hung his coat up on the hook on the wall, smoothing it out until it was completely straight. OCD. He'd always been like that. "And most likely charged with Magnussen's murder."

"There's no way he'll get off?"

"No," Mycroft said, almost apologetically. He couldn't help but feel sorry for Elspeth, wondering how she remained even a tiny bit hopeful. She was young. Naïve. "You should get some rest."

"I tried," Elspeth whispered. "I . . . I can't." more tears ran down her cheeks and she didn't have the strength to wipe them away. "He was doing it to protect us," she continued. "John and Mary and me . . . that's all Dad ever wanted to do. To protect us."

"I know," Mycroft told her. And he _did_ know. He knew how much his brother loved Elspeth, and how much he cared for John and Mary. It broke Mycroft's heart to know that Sherlock would go to such extreme lengths to protect them.

There was a long silence. Elspeth's voice was small when she spoke again. ". . . am I ever going to see my Dad again?"

Mycroft turned around, watching as his niece's face crumple with utter despair and pain, and he quickly strode forwards, sitting on the sofa next to her. It had been a long time since Mycroft had held his niece. He didn't think about it as he wrapped both his arms around her, letting her slump helplessly against his chest, sobbing and trembling. Elspeth clutched his jacket, burying her face into his shirt, and Mycroft very gently rested his chin on the top of her head. He shut his eyes.

There were a lot of things that Elspeth Holmes would never forget about that night, but the one thing that she would always, _always_ remember was the way that Sherlock had looked over his shoulder when he was being arrested, meeting her eyes across the patio. His gaze had been tearful and sorrowful and painful, and in that moment, Elspeth knew that her father was apologising. Even if he couldn't say it aloud, Sherlock would always be sorry for letting his daughter get hurt and see him shoot Magnussen.

That night would stick in her head for the rest of Elspeth's life.

* * *

Thank you ScissorLuv143, pax am days, EICochrane, nakari ash, Bookworm45669, tardislover1, Ms Moonshoes Potter, bellechat, Kayla, Guest, Adrillian1497, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, WerewolfHybrid31, ElizabethCullen08 and Meg for reviewing!

Bleh I gave myself feels writing this . . . so many feels. Sherlock and John, Sherlock and Ellie, Mycroft and Ellie . . . I realised I didn't write those two together so much, and I actually really like writing Mycroft and Ellie together! But . . . feels. Too many writer feels.


	22. Chapter 22

_**22.**_

Elspeth only got a few hours sleep before she woke up at six, sitting up on the sofa she was curled up on. She had fallen asleep there, and Mycroft didn't have the heart to wake her up and send her to the spare room. Untangling herself from the blanket Mycroft had thrown over her, she looked over at the kitchen table, where her uncle was sitting with a cup of tea and his newspaper.

"How did you sleep?" Mycroft asked her, peering at her over the paper.

"Terribly," Elspeth muttered. She ran her hands through her hair and stretched her legs out in front of her. She looked closely at Mycroft. "Where are you going?"

"To speak with Lady Smallwood." Mycroft finished his tea, folding his newspaper.

"Why?"

Mycroft resisted the urge to sigh. "To ask her to consider an alternative to Sherlock's incarceration," he explained.

Elspeth frowned. "What alternative?" she asked. Mycroft met her eyes for a second before looking down again, rising to his feet and buttoning his jacket. Elspeth also stood up, following him to the door. "Mycroft, what alternative?"

"Undercover work for MI6," Mycroft told her. He pulled on his coat. "In Eastern Europe, for six months."

Six months wasn't _that_ bad, Elspeth supposed, especially when compared to the two years she had spent thinking that Sherlock was dead. But there was something in Mycroft's voice that made her feel suspicious. Remorse. Sadness.

"He'll come back though," Elspeth said, her hope rising. "If he'll only be out there for six months, he'll have to come back. Or . . . or he'll relocate to somewhere closer to England, so we can all go visit him, right?"

Mycroft envied his niece for her naivety. He and Sherlock knew that the work in Eastern Europe would prove fatal, and that Sherlock would not return home after the six months had finished.

Unwilling to shatter her hope anymore, Mycroft forced himself to smile at Elspeth and kissed her forehead. "Keep your phone on," he told her. "If all goes well, a car will be here to collect you about midday."

"Ok," Elspeth said softly. "Mycroft . . ."

"Yes?"

"I'm going to see him before he goes, aren't I?"

"Of course," Mycroft promised.

* * *

"As my colleague is fond of remarking, this country sometimes needs a blunt instrument. Equally, it sometimes needs a dagger – a scalpel wielded with precision and without remorse," Mycroft said, gazing out of the window in front of him as he spoke, Lady Smallwood listening carefully. "There will always come a time when we need Sherlock Holmes."

"If this is some expression of familial sentiment . . ."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Don't be absurd," he said dismissively. "I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the _other _one." He grimaced slightly, then turned back to the window. "In any event, there is no prison in which we could incarcerate Sherlock without causing a riot on a daily basis. The alternative, however . . ." his voice trailing off, Mycroft gazed at Lady Smallwood. ". . . would require your approval."

He was trying so hard to keep his promise to Elspeth. Mycroft didn't want to have to explain that he had failed to his niece, not after the hours he had held her the previous night, listening to her cry.

Lady Smallwood gazed back at Mycroft for a few seconds, considering his words.

"Hardly merciful, Mr Holmes," she commented.

"Regrettably, Lady Smallwood, my brother is a murderer."

* * *

John and Mary arrived at the runway first, Sherlock smiling when he saw them. He stood with Mycroft and a security man, who would accompany Sherlock on the plane, waiting impatiently. He had only a few minutes to say his goodbyes and though he was pleased to see his friends, there was someone Sherlock really wanted to see.

Mary was closest to Sherlock. "You will look after them for me, won't you?" Sherlock asked her with a small smile. She grinned back.

"Oh, don't worry." She leaned up to kiss his cheek, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a warm embrace. "I'll keep them in trouble for you."

"That's my girl."

A second car pulled up by the first, the rear door opening before it had stopped completely, and Elspeth scrambled out, running towards Sherlock. Ignoring John and Mary, she flung her arms around Sherlock's neck and clung onto him, digging her face into his shoulder as he wrapped his arms back around her. Sherlock held Elspeth so close, squeezing his eyes shut. She was trying not to cry – he could feel the way she shook – and Sherlock kissed the side of her head. He should've hugged her more, he realised. It was too late now.

When Elspeth unwrapped her arms from his neck, she didn't let go of Sherlock completely. She stood with her arms clinging to one of his, leaning against him like she couldn't bear to let go. Sherlock didn't mind.

He looked across at John, who stood beside Mary, holding her hand. His friend nodded at him in greeting.

"Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson," Sherlock said to Mycroft. "Would you mind if we took a moment?"

Mycroft seemed startled, but nodded. Elspeth reluctantly let go of Sherlock's arm.

"Do you want me to go as well?" she asked him in a small voice. He shook his head and wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

"Stay."

John smiled at that. It wouldn't be the same without Elspeth there.

"So," John said. He cleared his throat, looking around the airfield with a vague expression. "Here we are."

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." Both John and Elspeth looked at Sherlock then, surprised. "That's the whole of it," he explained. "If you're looking for baby names."

"No," John said with a small laugh. "We've had a scan, we're pretty sure it's a girl."

"Oh. Ok," Sherlock said softly. He smiled at John. "Good luck. Girls are a handful."

"Hey," Elspeth protested. "I've been nothing but a delight."

They all laughed at that, an awkward silence following when they all realised that no one knew what to say. The only time Sherlock had truly said goodbye was two years ago, on the roof of the hospital. Elspeth had hated goodbyes since that day. John . . . John didn't have a way with words, not like some people did, and in times like that, it frustrated him.

"Yeah," he said stupidly, turning and looking around the airfield again, just so he wouldn't have to look his friend in the eye. That would make the situation too real. "Actually, I can't think of a single thing to say," he admitted.

"No, neither can I," Sherlock said quietly, looking down. Elspeth leaned even closer to him and let her head rest on his side.

"The game is over," John said.

"The game is never over, John," Sherlock said firmly. "But there may be some new players now. It's okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end."

"The East Wind," Elspeth repeated. She frowned. "What's that?"

"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind – this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth. That was generally _me_."

"Nice," John said sarcastically.

Sherlock shrugged. "He was a rubbish big brother."

"So what about you, then? Where are you actually going now?" John asked Sherlock.

"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe," Sherlock replied. He made the effort to sound bored, but even so, Elspeth looked up at him, her brow creasing slightly as she frowned.

"For how long?"

Sherlock tried to meet John's eyes, but found he couldn't. Instead, he let his gaze rest slightly above John. "Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong."

"And then what?"

He looked at John then, their eyes locking for a second. Sherlock looked away first and glanced towards Elspeth, who continued to watch him with an expression that suggested she wasn't quite convinced by him. Mycroft had been acting strangely when she asked him about it, and Sherlock even more so.

Guilty, Sherlock tore his eyes from his daughter's, looking down at his feet and then raising his head so he could gaze into the distance thoughtfully.

"Who knows?"

John nodded, taking in a deep breath. Elspeth pulled away from Sherlock slightly as she turned her head away, trying to blink back her tears. Something was going on, she was certain of it, but she was too stubborn to admit it because then it would mean she might never see Sherlock again. Elspeth really didn't want to consider that.

"John, there's something . . . I should say," Sherlock said. "I – I've _meant_ to say always and then never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." He paused for a long time, John and Elspeth watching him, never one certain of what he was going to say. Drawing in a deep breath, Sherlock met John's eyes. "Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

She couldn't help it – Elspeth let out a half laugh, half sob, biting down on her bottom lip. John giggled for a few seconds, Sherlock smiling at them both.

"It's not."

"It was worth a try."

"We're not naming our daughter after you," John told him with a smile.

"I think it could work," Sherlock said, which made John laugh again. When their eyes met, the laughter faded. His lips pressed together in a tight line, Sherlock took off his gloves and held his hand out. "To the very best of times, John."

John hesitated. This was it. Goodbye. He hated to do so, but eventually John put his hand in Sherlock's and shook it. The time he had spent with Sherlock were the best times. John had been so alone before he met Sherlock and Elspeth, and he would never regret any of the things they did together, no matter how ridiculous or dangerous. Sherlock Holmes was his best friend and John couldn't have been happier to know that.

"I'll . . . I'll give you two a moment," he murmured, letting go of Sherlock's hand.

Elspeth looked up at Sherlock, her lips pressed together as she tried not to cry again. "Eastern Europe, huh?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Eastern Europe," Sherlock repeated, nodding.

"What are you going to do afterwards? And don't say you don't know, you and Mycroft are acting weird."

Sherlock's lips twitched into a small smile. "I honestly don't know," he told Elspeth.

She snorted, shook her head, and then lowered her gaze so Sherlock wouldn't see the tears in her eyes. Sherlock looked back at his daughter for a moment. He'd never loved anyone as much as he loved her, and he was amazed at how proud he felt every time he looked at her. Elspeth had grown from a mischievous little girl to the bright young woman he was proud to call his daughter.

"So . . . uh, you're going to take care of yourself, right?" Elspeth said casually, peering up at him. Sherlock nodded.

"I'll try."

"Don't do anything stupid . . . or, you know, _die again_." Elspeth grimaced at that, regretting her choice of words. "Sorry, that wasn't funny, I just –" she cut herself off suddenly. Sherlock watched her with a small frown, blinking back his own tears. "I don't want you to go."

"I don't want to go either," Sherlock admitted to her.

Biting down on her bottom lip, Elspeth stepped forwards and hugged Sherlock again, wrapping her arms around his waist so she could hide her face in his chest. Sherlock hugged her back. He was there on the day she was born; Catherine had gone past him and dragged him into the ward behind her, screaming that she was having his baby, and it had been an unpleasant experience for them both. He'd left shortly after his daughter had been born, having no desire to hold her like Catherine suggested. Children were generally loud and messy and a nuisance to handle, and Sherlock really wasn't suited to fatherhood.

But when he saw her for the first time, three years later, Sherlock fell in love with his daughter immediately. He had no idea that love for a child was so strong. It made him realise that he would lay down his life if it meant that Elspeth would be safe.

The two years he'd been away were hell for Sherlock, but he kept going because he knew he would eventually be able to return to Elspeth and John. Knowing he might never see them again . . . he hated it. Sherlock really hated it.

Pulling away slightly, Sherlock put one hand on Elspeth's shoulder and cupped her chin with his other hand, smiling down at her.

"You'll stay out of trouble, won't you?"

Elspeth gave him a wry grin. "I can't promise that."

"Don't do anything stupid then," Sherlock amended.

"I can't promise that either."

Sherlock smiled and so did Elspeth, looking away as she tucked her hair behind her ear. Over her father's shoulder, she could see Mycroft checking his watch. Sherlock glanced over his brother's shoulder and met his eyes momentarily. It was nearly time to go.

"I . . . uh, I love you," Elspeth told Sherlock suddenly, looking up at him with tears in her eyes. Sherlock blinked. Nodding, he gently put his hands on her cheeks and bent down to kiss her forehead.

"I love you," he said quietly. "And I am so proud of you, Ellie. Never forget that."

Elspeth smile up at him, crying silently, and reached into her pocket. "I got you this," she said, pressing something into his hand. "I thought you could take it with you."

Sherlock looked down. Elspeth had given a photo that had been taken the day the press was alerted of Sherlock's return, everyone – Sherlock and Elspeth, John and Mary, Molly and Tom, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson – crowded together on the sofa in front of the camera Elspeth had set on timer. It was a lovely photo because they all sat with their arms around each other, grinning widely, like none of them had a care in the world. Sherlock gazed at it for a long time, then thanked her softly.

John held Mary's hand, and Mary held Elspeth's hand, when the plane lifted into the sky with Sherlock aboard. Elspeth cried a bit more, waving a final time to her father, and tried not to dwell on never seeing him again.

Mary squeezed Elspeth's hand comfortingly. "Do you want to come back to ours and have some tea?" she asked.

"Yeah," Elspeth sobbed.

Mycroft joined the three of them silently, putting his hand on Elspeth's shoulder. Letting go of Mary's hand, she turned and hugged him. All of them were blissfully unaware of what events were slowly unfolding.

* * *

"Oi! What's up with the telly? There's something wrong with the telly, mate!"

"Give it a whack, then!"

Lestrade rolled his eyes at the other customers in the pub, looking up from his pint at the TV. He wasn't really interested in the football match, only going in for a drink, but the noise made him look up. The TV – a new one, with no reason to act up – was fritzing uncontrollably, the landlord whacking the side of it irritably.

The static screen cleared a little, the shape of head and shoulders becoming more prominent. Lestrade frowned.

Then he realised who it was.

_Did you miss me? _

"Who's that?" someone shouted.

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? _

Back in 221B Baker Street, Mrs Hudson was hovering, waiting for Elspeth to return home. The TV had been on because she wanted to watch one of her programmes, barely noticing it as it fritzed and cleared up again.

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? _

Mrs Hudson looked up, confused, and jumped in shock when she saw the face on the screen, unable to stop the high pitched scream from escaping her lips. At St Barts, Molly Hooper could only stand in the lab, clutching the surface behind her for support, as she stared into the room next door.

_Did you miss me? _

Lady Smallwood, who had not left the conference room after speaking with Mycroft, shook her head in disbelief.

"How is this possible?" she asked.

"We don't know, but it's on every screen in the country – every screen simultaneously."

"Has the Prime Minister been told? And Mycroft?"

* * *

"But that's not possible," Mycroft said. "That is simply not possible."

Elspeth looked up when the door of Mycroft's car opened, her uncle climbing out and looking across the airfield at her.

"What's happened?" she called over to him. Mycroft continued to frown, slowly ending the call on his phone and tucking into his pocket, then glancing back into the car. There was a small TV screen set into the dashboard, the same face plastered on the screen as it had been around London. "Mycroft, what's happened?" Elspeth repeated when Mycroft didn't respond. Without waiting for an answer, she slid into the back seat of the car.

Seconds later, Elspeth scrambled back out, her face pale and her eyes wide with shock. She stumbled back a few steps, shaking her head.

"No," was all she said. "Oh my God, _no_."

"What's happened?" John demanded. He let go of Mary's hand, peering into Mycroft's car. He swore loudly when he saw the screen and, frowning, Mary also looked in. She recognised the face immediately.

Running her trembling hands through her hair, Elspeth turned to Mycroft, watching him take his phone out once more. She knew who he was calling.

"But he's dead," Mary said to John. "I mean, you told me he was dead."

"Absolutely. He blew his own brains out."

"So how can he be back?"

"Well, if he _is_ . . . he'd better wrap up warm," John said grimly, turning to his right and watching the plane with Sherlock on it land. Elspeth followed his gaze. "There's an East Wind coming."

Once the plane door was open, Sherlock strode back down the steps and across the airfield with an irritable expression on his face, trying to hide the way his eyes were slightly bloodshot. He glanced at Elspeth, taking in her pale face and shaking hands, and slid into the backseat of Mycroft's car to look at the screen; his brother had been annoyingly vague during their brief conversation.

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? _

"Well?" Mycroft asked expectantly when Sherlock climbed back out of the car. Silently, Sherlock nodded. Jim Moriarty was back. The game was on.

* * *

Thank you Ms Moonshoes Potter, ScissorLuv143, Meg, Bookworm45669, iwanttobeaneverdeen, tardislover1, AmethystSiri, WerewolfHybrid31, ElizabethCullen08, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, EICochrane, Aimee, SJBHasADayPass, Adrillian1497, GeorgyannWayson and bellechat for reviewing!

Now . . . onto my interpretation of series 4 . . . I'm not certain as to how frequent updates are going to be because I actually have exams coming up, and it'll all be original writing, so chapters may take a bit longer to be updated. Please please please be patient with me, I promise this fic will be finished, no matter how long it takes me!


	23. Chapter 23

_**23.**_

"How?" John demanded as he strode into 221B, throwing the door open so suddenly that it made Mrs Hudson flinch. The TV was still on, the photo of Jim Moriarty's voice dominating the screen, repeating the phrase over and over again – _did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_ "How is this even possible?"

"Ooh it's awful, Sherlock, it won't go away!" Mrs Hudson said, visibly shaken and nearly in tears. "I tried changing the channel, I honestly did – you know what I'm like with technology!"

"It's fine, Mrs Hudson," Mary assured her. She placed a hand on her shoulder. "Why don't we make some tea?" Mrs Hudson nodded, letting Mary guide her through to the kitchen. Sherlock nodded at her gratefully and turned his attention to the TV. _Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_ The animated jaw of Moriarty moved up and down a little, almost like he was saying it himself, the words **MISS ME?** printed in bold.

Elspeth was the last to trail in, slowly and reluctantly. The voice made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and every time she glanced at the TV screen, looked into Moriarty's dark eyes, she felt sick.

Two years. Two years since Moriarty pushed her against the wall of the office in the swimming pool and assaulted her.

She still had nightmares about it. They weren't as frequent as they used to be, but when they did dream about that night, the dreams were so _vivid_. She would feel his fingers digging, twisting into her skin so they would leave bruises and his teeth biting into the skin of her neck, making her scream. His lips would brush against her ear as he whispered horrible things that made her feel cheap and dirty, and his fingers would brush against the hem of her t-shirt when she'd shoot awake, covered in sweat and tangled in her sheets.

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you_ – Moriarty's voice was cut off suddenly when Elspeth grabbed the remote and flung it as hard as she could across the room, breaking the screen. It didn't make her feel much better.

Sherlock glanced at Elspeth. She didn't look at him. "Shut up," she said.

"No one said anything," Mary pointed out.

"You were all thinking it and that's even worse." Elspeth's voice was hollow, her tone hard. She sounded like a stranger.

The front door bell ringing made everyone jump, and Mrs Hudson quickly left the room to answer it. "If it's reporters, tell them to bugger off," John called after her. Sherlock's lips twitched. Mary placed a cup in her husband's hands, gently touching his arm.

It wasn't reporters at the door. "Guessing you've all seen it, then," Lestrade said as he strode into the living room, glancing towards the cracked TV screen and the remote lying on the floor not far from it. The tension in the room was so thick that not even a knife could've ceased it.

"How did you hear about it?" John asked him.

"Pub," Sherlock and Elspeth said simultaneously, the first time Sherlock had spoken since the plane landed. "He stinks of alcohol," Sherlock continued.

"Cheers," Lestrade muttered with half hearted sarcasm. "What the hell's going on, Sherlock? How is this even possible?"

"That's what we're trying to work out," Mary said in a low voice. "He was dead. You –" she looked at John. "– told me, he blew his brains out, didn't he?"

"Jesus Christ, the media are going to have a field day. Not to mention Anderson." Lestrade shook his head and grinned wryly at Sherlock. "You should've heard the things he was saying when we thought you were dead. He thought your body was actually Moriarty's with some sort of mask on."

Sherlock turned around, looking at Lestrade sharply. "Why would he say that?" he asked.

"I don't know, because he's nuts –"

"No, no, don't point out the obvious," Sherlock interrupted impatiently, waving away Lestrade's answer and striding close to him. "He thought my body was Moriarty's. What does that tell you?" Sherlock's eyes did a sweep of the flat. Both Lestrade and John looked back at him blankly, but Mary looked thoughtful, frowning slightly.

Elspeth, who was leaning against the living room doorway, slowly lifted her head, her eyes meeting Sherlock's across the room. "That Moriarty's body was never found," she said quietly.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, watching as realisation dawned on him. That was all the confirmation he needed.

A long silence followed. Elspeth bit down on her bottom lip so hard that she tasted blood, her arms wrapping around herself, like she would break into a million tiny pieces if she let go. Her breathing became shallow, hard to control. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"What are we going to do?" John asked.

"I . . . I don't know," Sherlock said, his voice barely audible.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Elspeth demanded. Her voice rose. "How could you _not know_?"

"Hey, Ellie, we're all upset –" Lestrade began.

"No, don't _say_ that! Don't even _say_ that to me, you don't _understand_! How can you not know?" Elspeth faced Sherlock with desperation in her eyes, tears spilling onto her cheeks. Her hands shook so much that she clenched them into fists. "I thought you said he was _gone_."

Sherlock blinked. He gazed at Elspeth, saw the tears in her eyes and the way she couldn't stop shaking, then turned away, too ashamed to face her. "I'm sorry," he said in a low voice.

Elspeth turned away silently. Sherlock wished she would do something – scream, shout, cry loudly. He knew how to deal with them, but after her outbursts, Elspeth seemed to fade away into the background. She stood with her back leaning against the doorway for support, her eyes on the ground. Children cried for attention. Children cried silently because it meant that they couldn't stop.

"His network," John said suddenly, turning to face Sherlock. "You told us – you said _ages_ ago that you spent those two years getting rid of Moriarty's network!"

"I must've missed a link somewhere," Sherlock said, his frustration growing. "_How_? I dismantled everything, _how_ could I have missed anything?"

"It's easy to do," Lestrade said quietly. Sherlock gazed at him across the room, then lowered his eyes, remembering the night he had been shot; Moriarty was locked in his mind palace because, that day on the roof, he had told him that they were the same person. And they were. Without Elspeth, without John, without the thrill of the game, he would've been just like Moriarty. Not many things scared Sherlock Holmes. That thought terrified him.

Elspeth bit down on her bottom lip, half listening to everyone talking. No one could wrap their heads around Moriarty's sudden return. They kept saying his name – "Moriarty this . . ." and "Moriarty that . . ." It made her want to scream. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose while trying to focus on her breathing. She couldn't pass out. Not at a time like this.

No one was looking at her. Elspeth gently scuffed the toe of her shoe against the ground, just to see if it would gain anyone's attention, but not even Sherlock seemed to notice, so she straightened up and stalked down the stairs. She didn't know or care where she was going. She just needed to get as far away as she could.

"– not _possible_," John insisted. "It isn't _possible_."

"Where's Ellie?" Mary asked suddenly. Everyone looked towards the doorway Elspeth had previously been standing at, Sherlock's face losing some of its colour when he realised she was gone.

"Ellie?" he called. He strode out of the living room and called her name again, running upstairs to check her bedroom. Lestrade sighed.

"Great," he muttered. "That's the last thing we need right now."

Mary turned to John. "Should we call Mycroft? Let him know?"

"There's no point," John said with a frown. "You know what she's like." Elspeth was like Sherlock. When she didn't want to be found, it was impossible to find her.

Sherlock strode back into the living room. His lips were pressed together in a tight line as he dropped into his armchair, scrunching his eyes shut. John recognised the look and guided Mary out of the room, gesturing for Lestrade to follow them.

"Where are we going?" Mary asked John quietly.

"Downstairs. Sherlock needs some time to think."

* * *

The corridor was cold and silent, but Elspeth barely noticed the less than desirable conditions as she sat on the ground with her legs curled up to her chest. She buried her face into her arms. After a long walk, Elspeth had found herself at Leinster Gardens – specifically the house that Sherlock owned. No one would be there and there was no chance of seeing Moriarty's face in that dark corridor.

Elspeth realised that maybe she should've stayed at home, or at least let someone know that she was leaving, but she'd done what she always did and panicked.

Letting her head fall back against the wall, Elspeth contemplated Magnussen's words. _What is it, exactly, you do to aid them? _

Nothing. She didn't do anything. A few tears rolled down Elspeth's cheeks but she wiped them away stubbornly, feeling her anger rising. "Stop being stupid," she said under her breath, clutching her hair. "Stop _crying_."

But no matter how much she told herself too, Elspeth couldn't stop crying. She had said goodbye to Sherlock – _forever_, she thought – and the face of the man who haunted her sleep was all over London, and everywhere she turned, that was all Elspeth saw. She felt sick. Her hands trembled so she tightened her grip on her hair, squeezing her eyes shut until she saw stars.

"Oh God," Elspeth moaned quietly. She then scowled at herself. "No, _stop it_," she hissed, releasing her strong hold on her hair and untangling her fingers. "Stop it, stop it, stop it."

Talking to herself. Wasn't that the first sing of madness? Elspeth smiled bitterly and let her legs slide down to the ground in front of her, gazing at the tips of her boots. Jesus, Magnussen was right. She was of no use or help to Sherlock and John, they were probably far better off without her, and the sooner they all realised that, the better. Elspeth's eyes rose from her shoes to the wall opposite her. She pulled her jacket a bit closer to her. Tomorrow, she decided, she would tell Sherlock that she didn't want anything to do with this.

The sudden sound of her phone ringing made Elspeth jump. She grinned sheepishly at herself and took it from her pocket. It was probably John or Mary, or maybe even Lestrade calling her. Sherlock wouldn't bother because he was probably sitting in his chair, in his Mind Palace, while he tried to work out Moriarty's next move.

It was a withheld number. Elspeth should've known it was a bad idea to answer the phone but it seemed like everything she did was a bad idea.

"Hello?"

There was a brief silence, only a few seconds long, but it dragged on. Elspeth frowned. There was someone on the other end of the phone, she was certain of it, but no one was talking or responding, and Elspeth was beginning to feel a bit disconcerted.

". . . who is this?" she asked warily, her voice barely a whisper.

"Hello, Ellie. Did you miss me?"

Elspeth's heart missed a beat. That wasn't the recording – no, that was the voice, _his_ voice, soft and full of amusement because he was mocking her, always _mocking _her. Without realising, Elspeth held her breath, her hand clenching the phone so hard that her knuckles ached with protest, but she barely even noticed. Her face lost some of its colour.

"How . . ." she choked out.

"Leinster Gardens," Moriarty purred on the other end of the phone, Elspeth scrambling to her feet when he did. Oh God, did he know where she was? She stumbled backwards and into the wall, her eyes darting about wildly while her heart pounded at the prospect. "Interesting choice of hideout, love. No one would ever think to look for you behind a façade . . ."

"Where are you?" Elspeth found the courage to ask. Her voice sounded more confident than she felt.

Moriarty laughed at her. "Oh _princess_ –" Elspeth flinched at the pet name. "– I can't tell you, that would ruin all the fun! Besides . . ." Moriarty's voice dropped into a low, intimate murmur. "You don't find me, I find you."

Elspeth was relieved she was leaning against the wall because without its support, she probably would've collapsed on the ground again. She made herself smile, forcing her tone to lighten.

"And when will you be _finding me_?"

"Ellie, Ellie, Ellie." Moriarty tutted. "Stop trying to ruin the surprise, you'll find out soon enough. It might be today, it might be tomorrow, it might be when you least expect it . . . but when I do, we are going to have so much fun together."

A shiver ran down Elspeth's spine. It took her a few seconds to compose herself, clamping a hand over her mouth so Moriarty wouldn't hear her panicked breaths.

"This is all just a big game to you, isn't it?" she whispered finally. Her voice trembled.

"_Duh_." Moriarty made it sound so obvious. "Now, be a dear and pop home so you can tell Daddy and Doctor Watson and that _wife _–" he let out a noisy breath that sounded like it was torn between appreciation and annoyance. "– of his everything that I told you. Keep all the gory details, of course. Oh, and Ellie?"

"Yes?"

Elspeth could _hear_ the smirk when Moriarty said, "see you soon."

* * *

"He's been like that for hours now," Mary said, she and John standing in the living room doorway. "Ellie's been missing for just as long, we should be out looking for her now that _he's_ back." John didn't have to ask who she meant. "John." She put her hand on his arm. "We can't just leave it like this. We have to do _something_."

Sherlock's eyes were shut, but they suddenly snapped open again when the front door opened. Tearing himself from Mary, John whirled around, standing at the top of the stairs. He was relieved to see Elspeth shutting the door behind her.

"Oh thank God," Mary murmured from behind him.

"Are you alright?" John asked Elspeth hurriedly, his hand on her arm when she walked to the top of the stairs.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Elspeth insisted softly. Her voice trembled unconvincingly though, and John and Mary could both see that she had been crying. They didn't comment on it. Ducking her head, Elspeth walked into the living room.

Sherlock took one look at Elspeth. He immediately rose to his feet and strode across the room, his hands cupping her face protectively as his gaze pierced hers.

"What happened?"

"Dad –"

"Elspeth," Sherlock interrupted, Elspeth blinking at the use of her full name. "Tell me what happened," he ordered sternly.

Sighing, Elspeth pulled away from Sherlock slightly, pinched the bridge of her nose and ran a hand through her hair. Her palms were red. Sherlock could see the little indents from where she had dug her nails into them, watching Elspeth perch on the end of the sofa, then sink back like a great force was pushing her down. John walked into the living room, sitting in his armchair. Neither man took their eyes off Elspeth.

After a few seconds of gathering her thoughts, Elspeth slowly and tentatively told Sherlock, John and Mary what had happened – her brief visit to Leinster Gardens, the phone call, everything that Moriarty had said to her.

When she was finished talking, John clenched his fist and rested it on the arm of his chair, biting down on his lip so he wouldn't say something rude. It occurred to Mary, then, that he was going to make a brilliant father to their baby.

Sherlock, who had been pacing while Elspeth spoke, stopped abruptly and stood with his back to them for a few seconds. He turned around, leaned over Elspeth and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"You," he murmured softly. "are brilliant."

_That_ wasn't the reaction she had been expecting. Blinking several times, Elspeth lowered her gaze to the ground and frowned while John watched Sherlock straighten up, a wide smile spreading across the detective's face. It was the first time he had smiled since they arrived back at 221B and it made everyone else feel a little uneasy; now was definitely not the time to be smiling.

"As long as Moriarty keeps underestimating us, we're at an advantage," Sherlock said ecstatically, continuing to pace back and forth. "He's got something planned, I know he has, but he'll slip up – he's done it before and he'll do it again. We just have to wait, plan . . ."

"And what, in the meantime, Ellie gets threatening phone calls from him?" John retorted angrily. "Jesus, Sherlock, do you not remember what he_ did_?"

"Yes, of course I do," Sherlock snapped back irritably. His grin disappeared and was replaced with a scowl. "But right now Ellie is our only chance of keeping in contact with him –"

"Maybe Ellie doesn't _want_ to be the only chance –"

"Don't be so ridiculous, John, Ellie knows that –"

Sherlock and John bickered like that for several more minutes, Mary rolling her eyes and carefully sitting down next to Elspeth, her hands curved around the swell of her stomach. Elspeth felt sorry for her. Mary was only a few months away from her due date, and all this added stress wasn't what she needed so far into the pregnancy.

"Ellie is sitting right here, you know," Elspeth finally interjected, raising her voice to be heard over the pair. "And I would really quite like a say in this, if you don't mind."

"Sorry," John muttered under his breath. Sherlock looked at Elspeth expectantly. She sighed, running her hand through her hair and brushing it behind her ear as she thought. She'd made her mind up to stay away from it all, keep herself sane, especially after Moriarty's phone call. But now it seemed like Sherlock and John were relying on her.

"Yeah, alright," Elspeth said with a resigned sigh. "I'll do it."

"You don't have to do it if you don't want to," John assured her in what he hoped was a soothing tone, but it didn't have the desired effect of making Elspeth feel better. Instead, she looked at him with an angry glower, dropping her hands down onto her lap.

"Well it doesn't look like I have a choice now," she snapped back irritably. Before Sherlock, John or Mary could respond, Elspeth rose to her feet and stormed out of the living room. They could hear her bedroom door slam shut. Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh.

"Now that's dealt with –"

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "Don't you think we should take this slowly? Rushing in isn't going to do us any good."

"Rushing in is the only option. Moriarty could be building his network _right now_, but oh – no, let's just sit around and _drink tea_," Sherlock said sarcastically. He flopped down onto his armchair, his lips pressed together and his fingers resting on his temples; John scowled when he realised what his friend was doing, slamming his hands down on the arms of his chair.

"Right. Real mature, Sherlock."

Standing up, John turned and helped Mary to her feet, then stormed out of the living room. Mary looked towards Sherlock with a small frown and followed her husband, keeping one hand curved protectively over her stomach.

The game was on and they were all the players, Elspeth realised as she curled up on her bed upstairs. Whether they liked it or not.

* * *

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Meg, tardislover1, Destiny Xavier16, Ms Moonshoes Potter, ElizabethCullen08, WerewolfHybrid31, nakari ash, ScissorLuv143, the kids from yesterday, Bookworm45669, bellechat, iwanttobeaneverdeen, Aimee, LittleGee, MySadCaptains, shen, Darcy and Adrillian1497 for reviewing!

Hopefully my first chapter of series 4 is alright! I'm really excited about this!


	24. Chapter 24

_**24.**_

"_Elspeth_."

"Huh – oh _fu –_ dge," Elspeth stopped herself from swearing last minute, scowling down at her now bleeding finger for a moment before sticking it into her mouth. Sighing, John gently tugged on her wrist and applied a plaster to the cut on her finger; he'd been anticipating her cutting herself when he realised she was absent mindedly washing the cutlery. He didn't know why – and he wasn't certain if he _wanted_ to know – but Sherlock had a worryingly large collection of sharp knives that he used on occasion.

"Should've been paying attention," he scolded half-heartedly. He looked at Elspeth closely. "Are you alright?"

"What? Yeah, fine," Elspeth insisted. She sounded distant though. Not quite there. It had been two days but no one had heard anything, and everyone was on edge. John and Mary had exchanged sharp words that morning, and though neither of them meant what they had said, Mary decided to stay at home and rest while John returned to 221B.

Sherlock and Elspeth had barely spoken. He was thinking, sitting in his armchair with his violin in his lap, and she was just staring into space. It was like the aftermath of the night in the pool, John thought, and the idea terrified him. Mary didn't understand his concern. She hadn't seen Elspeth then.

"Have you heard anything?"

Elspeth's eyes darted to his then, wary. "No."

"Ellie, I know this is scary but –"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock said from the living room. John scowled and glared back at him. "Ellie, there's someone at the door."

"No, there isn't –" John began, only to be interrupted by the doorbell ringing. It was followed by Sherlock raising his eyebrows triumphantly at John, who gave him a dark look. The exchange went unnoticed by Elspeth, who drifted past them and down the stairs. "Does she seem a bit . . . off to you?" John asked Sherlock the moment Elspeth was out of earshot.

Sherlock frowned. "I hadn't noticed."

John stared back at him incredulously. He had been putting it delicately when he said Elspeth was _off_; how could Sherlock not notice her strange behaviour?

"I must say I was surprised you didn't call me," a familiar, feminine voice purred. Irene smiled wickedly as she strode into the living room with Elspeth trailing close behind, looking very much like she was trying not to smile. "It would've been nice."

Glancing at Irene, John sighed. That was the last thing he needed.

John did a double take. His mouth fell open. Irene Adler, the Woman, was in their flat. Alive. Mycroft had told him that she was dead, but John had lied to Sherlock and told him that she was alive to spare his feelings.

"Hello again, John," Irene said pleasantly.

"Does nobody _die_ anymore?" John spluttered. He was torn between anger, confusion, and even a bit of amusement; the situation was just so ridiculous. Elspeth frowned at John.

"Ah yes, that brother of yours is under the impression that I'm dead," Irene said with a grimace in Sherlock's direction, the detective carefully putting away his violin. Elspeth perched on the arm of the sofa and smiled because despite everything she put them through, she couldn't help but like Irene. "You should probably warn him."

"Do you want me to text him?" Elspeth piped up with a small grin.

"No need," Sherlock said. He had already done it. "You can shut your mouth now, John."

"So you were never dead?" John demanded from Irene, who turned and smiled back at him calmly, apparently unfazed by the situation.

"No. Did someone tell you I was?" Irene grinned widely at John's incredulous expression. Slinking forwards, she draped herself on the arm of Sherlock's chair. "I suppose you know why I'm here."

"No, actually," John retorted.

"I wasn't talking to you." Irene didn't take her eyes off Sherlock. "Go on," she urged him softly. "Tell them. Impress a girl."

"Last time he did that, you tried to blackmail my uncle," Elspeth said dryly. Irene smiled at her over her shoulder.

"Forgive and forget, Ellie, forgive and forget."

"With Moriarty asserting his presence once more, Irene will be instrumental in bringing him down," Sherlock explained. He rose to his feet. It had only been two days but apparently news travelled fast, because the last he had heard from her – and Sherlock did receive the occasional message from Irene, including a red rose sent from her when Mary shot him – she was in America under a new alias. "She is familiar with the workings of his network."

"Not to mention the _workers_ in his network," Irene added slyly, smiling when John glowered at her. Elspeth, who had been listening closely with her head resting against the wall, frowned suspiciously at that.

"Hang on," she said, turning to face Irene with a guarded look in her eyes. "How do we know you're not working for him?" Elspeth didn't say Moriarty's name. Everyone noticed, but no one said anything. "You've done it before, you could do it again."

"Moriarty is also under the impression that I'm dead," Irene told her. Her smile became slightly more sincere when she gazed at the younger women. "I suppose you're just going to have to trust me."

Elspeth bit down on her bottom lip and shook her head, suppressing the strong urge to snort. Trust was something they were all struggling with at that moment.

"So now what?" Elspeth asked Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't answer, distracted by the sound of his phone ringing. He took it out of his pocket, scowled at and then threw the phone to Elspeth.

"It's Mycroft," he told her.

Rolling her eyes, Elspeth answered it. "Hey Mycroft," she said. "Yeah, he's here, he just doesn't want to talk to you." Sherlock could only imagine his brother's snide remark, watching closely as Elspeth's grin slowly faded from her face. "Are you sure? Yeah . . . I'll let him know. Bye." She ended the call and threw it back across the room to Sherlock. "Mycroft's sending a car for us."

"Why?" John asked.

Elspeth bit down on her bottom lip, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and looked at Sherlock with a sad expression in her eyes. "He's found Moriarty," she told him softly. "And he's asking to see us."

* * *

"It was easy," Mycroft said, standing with Sherlock and Elspeth in front of the one way mirror. "Too easy."

Sherlock looked away momentarily, his eyes meeting Mycroft's over Elspeth's head. She hadn't torn her eyes from the room since they arrived. "Are you suggesting that he wanted to be caught?"

"Perhaps. Who knows what goes on in that man's mind?"

Elspeth frowned as she continued to stare into the room, knowing that Moriarty couldn't see her but still feeling like his eyes were on her, watching her. He was restrained by handcuffs and looked rather unkempt, his hair messy, his face unshaven. Moriarty still had that look in those dark eyes of his, wild and calculating and _evil_.

Crossing one arm across her chest, Elspeth bit down on her thumb, supressing the strong urge to burst into tears. Oh god, she felt sick seeing him.

As if sensing her thoughts, Sherlock reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. Though he didn't look away from Moriarty, Elspeth felt glad for the contact, leaning against her father slightly.

"I'll go in first," Sherlock said to Mycroft.

Elspeth looked up at him, giving Sherlock a small smile that felt more like a grimace, and Sherlock gently squeezed her shoulder before letting go, allowing Anthea to lead him to the door. Mycroft sighed, turning to his niece.

"Perhaps you would prefer sit outside," he said quietly.

"No, it's alright," Elspeth said. "I . . . I'll stay here." She felt like she had to stay and face her fear, no matter how sick it made her feel. Mycroft touched her shoulder gently but she barely noticed, biting down on her bottom lip so hard that she tasted blood.

Sherlock walked into the room silently, the door slamming shut behind him, and his face was a mask of calm as he sat down opposite Moriarty. The last time Sherlock had seen the consulting criminal, he had been dead on the roof of St Barts, but now he was alive and sitting across from him, gazing at him with that triumphant gleam in his eyes.

"No Doctor Watson?" Moriarty asked, pouting. "Sherlock, I'm _disappointed_. I thought you carted your little pet everywhere." Sherlock ignored the dig, glad that he had convinced John to go home to Mary; John was too volatile, too temperamental. He knew that John would've said or done something they'd all regret. "Where's Ellie?" Moriarty continued. Sherlock's hands clenched under the table. "I know she's here, you never leave the house without her. Are you afraid, Sherlock?" the gleam in Moriarty's eyes became more intense. "Are you afraid that your little princess is going to get bitten by the big bad wolf?"

Sherlock kept his eyes locked with Moriarty, silent and calculating. On the other side of the mirror, Elspeth squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

"That was very clever, by the way, faking your own death. _Very_ clever." Moriarty leaned as far forwards as his restraints would allow him. "How'd you do it?"

"I calculated the different possibilities of what would happen once I invited you to the roof. Did you really think I wouldn't take the necessary precautions?"

"You and me both, Sherlock. Bet you didn't tell any of your friends though." Sherlock didn't answer. A wide grin spread across Moriarty's face. "Oh, you _didn't_, did you?" he taunted, laughing. "Did they cry? I bet they cried _loads_ didn't they?" Moriarty's grin turned sly. "I heard Ellie ended up in the loony bin. Poor baby."

He was trying to get a reaction out of Sherlock, he knew that. It became increasingly more difficult to maintain a calm exterior but somehow Sherlock managed it, watching Moriarty closely. The man was mad, and though he would never tell anyone, Moriarty scared Sherlock. He'd locked him in his Mind Palace because Sherlock knew that without Elspeth and John, and all the people that loved and cared for him, he would've ended up the same as Jim Moriarty. Dangerous, reckless, _mad_.

But Sherlock knew that he would never – _never_ – hurt anyone the way that Moriarty had hurt Elspeth.

"How did you do it?" Sherlock asked slowly, leaning towards Moriarty. "How did you survive your . . . suicide?"

Moriarty's grin grew manic. "You don't know," he said. "Well I'm not going to tell_ you_."

"Who will you tell then?"

Looking up, Moriarty gazed past Sherlock and at the one way mirror, knowing that Elspeth was on the other side with Mycroft. Sherlock Holmes rarely left without Elspeth following close behind, whether Sherlock wanted her there or not.

"I _might _tell Ellie." Moriarty's grin spread from ear to ear while Sherlock glared back at him. "If she asks nicely, of course."

Sherlock stood up suddenly, Moriarty leaning back in his seat. "I'll let my brother know just how cooperative you've been," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"You can't protect her forever, Sherlock," Moriarty called after him. Sherlock paused by the door, turning slightly and looking over his shoulder. "You just can't."

The door swung shut behind Sherlock when he left the room. Mycroft looked down at Elspeth, spotting the thoughtful look in her eyes and sighing. "Don't get any ideas," he warned her sternly. Elspeth blinked innocently.

"What?"

"You're not going in there and you are certainly not talking with him in any way."

"Why not?" Elspeth asked. She didn't _want_ to. She didn't want to go anywhere near that man, but if it was the only way that they could get the answers from him, then she would find a way to do it. "Give him what he wants so you get what you want." Elspeth shrugged. "I don't know what's wrong with that."

"I agree," Sherlock said from behind her, making her jump. She hadn't realised that he was behind her. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother, unimpressed.

"If we give in to his demands then he will continue making more," Mycroft sneered. "We cannot put ourselves in that position." There was no telling what Moriarty would ask for after seeing Elspeth, and there was no way that Mycroft was willing to risk that. Moriarty was a clever and dangerous man.

"Let him have this one thing," Elspeth said quietly. She turned to look at Mycroft and Sherlock with determination in her eyes. Behind it was fear and anxiety, and both men could see it no matter how hard she tried to hide it, but no one pointed it out. "Just . . . I don't know, give me five minutes. _Two_ minutes. If I can't get him to tell us what you want to know, I'll leave."

It sounded easy. Dear God, Elspeth _hoped_ it would be easy. She wanted to go in, get what she needed, and leave again. She didn't want to spend any more time with Jim Moriarty than was necessary.

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged glances. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly, Elspeth's eyes flickering between the two of them. Both were adamant; Mycroft didn't want Elspeth to go in, Sherlock did. Elspeth was torn, wanting to side with her father so she could help – Magnussen's words about her being rather useless plagued her every night and day – but also wanting Mycroft to be firm and stop Elspeth from going in so she wouldn't have to face Moriarty.

Sighing, Mycroft nodded. "You have _five_ minutes," he told Elspeth.

"Ok," she said quietly. Taking in a deep breath, she brushed her hair behind her ears, tucked her hoodie a little closer to herself, and walked into the room. Moriarty couldn't hurt her, Elspeth reminded herself, because he was restrained and there were people waiting in the room behind her to pin him to the ground if he so much as _tried _to touch her. Even so, she faltered slightly when their eyes locked.

"Ellie," Moriarty purred, a shiver running down her spine. "_Hi_."

Elspeth sat down in the seat her father had previously occupied, leaning as far back as she could. "You have something to tell me," she said stiffly.

"Only if you ask nicely," Moriarty scolded, tutting at her. "Go on. Ask. For me."

She sighed. She should've expected Moriarty to be trouble.

"What . . . have you got to tell me?" she asked him slowly, aware that Mycroft and Sherlock were watching them both, listening to every word they said.

"Say please."

"Cut the crap, Moriarty, and tell me what you know," Elspeth snapped back irritably. Moriarty raised his eyebrows, torn between shock and amusement as he gazed at her, biting his bottom lip while he grinned. Sherlock was fun to toy with, but he _loved_ messing around with Elspeth's mind because of those _beautiful_ reactions of hers. "I've got five minutes and if you don't tell me how you survived your suicide on the roof, I am walking out of that door and I'm never coming back."

_Wow_. Elspeth had absolutely no idea where all that had come from, but she couldn't deny that she felt rather empowered – no matter how clichéd that was.

"She certainly is Catherine Fisher's daughter," Mycroft murmured to Sherlock on the other side of the mirror, his brother smirking ever so slightly. No matter how alike Elspeth and Sherlock were, there was no denying that there were instances when Elspeth was scarily like her mother.

"We both know that's not quite true." Moriarty leaned in, his handcuffed hands resting on the table between them. Elspeth recoiled slightly. In the room behind them, Sherlock took a step forwards, closer to the mirror. "You and I both know that you _love_ this little game of ours, you _missed_ me when I was gone." He grinned manically at her while Elspeth glared back with disgust. "You couldn't keep away from me."

"Keep telling yourself that, you might start believing yourself," Elspeth said dryly.

"What about you?"

Elspeth blinked. "What about me?"

"Will you ever believe it?" Moriarty asked with a wicked gleam in his eyes, Elspeth snorting back loudly.

"You wish. Will you tell me now?"

Moriarty tilted his head to the side, thoughtful, and gazed at Elspeth for a few seconds, as if carefully considering his words. Elspeth stared back and tried not to squirm, hiding the way Moriarty made her skin crawl.

"_Well_ –" he dragged the sound out for a few seconds. Elspeth pressed her lips together, turning her head away. "– I _suppose_ could tell you." Moriarty moved even closer to Elspeth and she resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder at Sherlock for assurance, watching Moriarty carefully. "It's just like everything I've ever done," he continued in a soft whisper. "All it takes is some willing participants."

Frowning, Elspeth leaned closer to Moriarty without realising it. "Who?" she said quietly. "Who helped you?"

"No, no, no," Moriarty moaned. "Stop it, Ellie, stop trying to ruin all the fun! We've had this discussion before."

"What have you got planned, Moriarty?"

Moriarty grinned back. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Ellie," Mycroft said from behind them. It had been five minutes, which passed far quicker than Elspeth had realised, but she didn't tear her eyes from Moriarty's, unable to look away.

"What have you got planned?" she repeated.

"Elspeth," Mycroft said again, seconds away from crossing the room and grabbing Elspeth by the arm so he could drag her away from Moriarty.

"Run along now, princess," Moriarty taunted. "Run run run as fast as you can." Elspeth looked at Moriarty a second longer and reluctantly tore her eyes from him, rising to her feet. Mycroft gave her a stern look when she crossed the room, Elspeth unable to meet his gaze. Things had gone too far with Moriarty, she realised, got too intense between them. Of course she wasn't going to visit him again but she hated to admit that she probably wasn't going to forget that conversation for a long time.

"Was that any help?" Elspeth asked Sherlock quietly, joining him on the other side of the mirror. Mycroft shut and locked the door behind her.

"It'll do for now," Sherlock said. He looked at Elspeth with an unfathomable expression in his eyes, but his face softened when he smiled down at her. "Thank you." It wasn't often that Sherlock thanked people, so Elspeth's cheeks turned slightly pink as she shrugged.

"No problem," she said casually, careful to keep her back turned to Moriarty. She made a solemn promise then not to let herself get into that situation again. Though she had stood up to him and faced him, Moriarty still scared the crap out of her.

"Keep a close eye on him," Sherlock told Mycroft. "And let me know if he says anything else."

"You'll have to answer your phone in order for me to do that," Mycroft said dryly. Elspeth couldn't say she was surprised that Mycroft and Sherlock still managed to bicker at a time like this, putting her hand on her father's arm and gently tugging on his sleeve, reminding him they had to leave. Without another word, Sherlock left the room, Elspeth giving Mycroft a small smile before following him.

Moriarty was locked away and restrained in a tight room, but despite this, Elspeth had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn't say anything, climbing into the back seat of the car next to Sherlock, who gazed out of the window with a contemplative expression. He was thinking about everything that Moriarty had told them, and so was Elspeth.

For some reason though, even when she was back in her bedroom in 221B, for the whole journey Elspeth couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. Uncomfortable, Elspeth locked her window, shut the curtains and grabbed her Ipod so she could drown out the sound of the outside world while she sketched. Even then, Elspeth couldn't shake the feeling.

* * *

Thank you ScissorLuv143, bellechat, Bookworm45669, quidditchandsonicscrewdrivers, WerewolfHybrid31, Ms Moonshoes Potter, Adrillian1497, EICochrane, Darcy, Kayla, SJBHasADayPass, ElizabethCullen08, BlueGreen216, Aimee and Tayla for reviewing!

I'm really sorry for the late update, I've been plagued by exams this week; I had two on Tuesday, including a two and a half hour English lang-lit exam. All I can say is that I'll be sincerely glad when they're over.

Irene's back! And Moriarty! I don't know if you can tell but I am really excited, if not a little nervous, about this . . . I have a general storyline in my mind that I'll follow, hopefully you'll like it!


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